The Embers
by Lildizzle
Summary: My take on what happens post-Mockingjay, written alternately from Peeta's and Katniss' points of view. A tale of what could be. Looking for some well-written, in canon goodness?
1. Chapter 1 The Hospital  P

**A/N: So I know it's been done before, but this is my take on the story of how Peeta and Katniss grow back together after the war. I'm starting with Peeta in the Capitol toward the end of Mockingjay and going from there. I'll be writing from both Peeta's and Katniss' points of view.**

**For anyone who has read my story _The Lake_, this will be the expanded version I proposed in the AN.**

**I'll be keeping everything (more or less) in canon for this story, but will be introducing new characters and adding a few twists along the way to keep things fun!**

**I find music very inspiring, especially when setting a mood/tone, and whenever applicable I will name a song or two at the beginning of each chapter. If you're not familiar with the song, or even if you are, I encourage you to look up the lyrics and/or listen to it.**

**Without futher ado, I present with love _The Embers_. Please enjoy.**

**Love, LilD**

**Disclaimer: _The Hunger Games_ and its characters are property of Suzanne Collins, whom I thank.  
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><p>Song:<em>In Repair<em> by John Mayer

Chapter 1 – The Hospital

If the pain of the handcuffs around my bloodied wrists had allowed me to avoid falling into the poisoned recesses of my mind, then this pain rockets me fully into reality. For a brief, blazing moment, I know everything I am experiencing is absolutely true.

I had seen only a flash of fire and heard the blast and screams at the first explosion. In the short span before the second round of bombs go off, I see her: Katniss calling out to Prim, who turns to her sister the moment before flames engulf her body. My Mockingjay, too, is aflame. I am blinded by the deep and resounding truth of my love for Katniss, my desire for her to live.

And then it hits me. I am also on fire, my clothing ignited. Chaos and flames consume everything. All I can feel is the torturous pain of my smoldering skin, and all I can hear, in spite of the din around me, is Katniss' screams.

The screams stay with me as I lose consciousness, joined now by agonizing visions of children, Prim, Katniss, mockingjays all burning and screaming, the birds echoing the shrieks of the others.

After a time, the screams fade, and different terrors take hold. I still hear Katniss, but her voice vacillates between sounding scared, calling for help, and being vile and cold, spitting vicious aspersions.

When I first become aware that I am in a hospital, I'm overtaken by confusion and dread. What had happened? Where is Katniss? Is she alive? Even in my medically numbed state, the prospect of her being dead sends a wrench through my gut.

They tell me she is alive, but also badly burned. That my skin may be painful and scarred for a while, but I would heal. That the rebels took the Capitol, won the war, and Coin leads Panem. The only part that matters to me is that Katniss lives. With this knowledge, I resolve to regain my physical and mental health so that I can help her regain hers.

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><p>Weeks pass. I endure the excruciating process of rebuilding my skin. Even after countless treatments, my body is mottled with tender swaths of red and pink. My singed eyebrows are yet to grow back in, although I've been told I can have them cosmetically restored if they don't. I'm still in the Capitol, after all.<p>

One morning, sometime after my weaning off the morphling begins, Dr. Aurelius enters my room accompanied by a tall, willowy woman in a crisp white doctor's coat. Her smooth, glossy hair, simply but elegantly styled, suggest she is a Capitol citizen, but her wide eyes and smile covey genuine warmth.

"Good morning, Peeta," Dr. Aurelius says. While he's part of my team of doctors, Dr. Aurelius has never actually treated my burns or other injuries. I have the feeling he's a mental health doctor of some kind, keeping an eye on me.

"Good morning," I reply, pushing aside the remains of my breakfast.

"Peeta, this is Dr. Aceso, an associate of mine. We have been discussing your condition with your burn doctors, and we feel it is time to resume your mental recovery. If you feel ready, that is."

"Yes, of course I do." I pause. "Can you?" I ask solemnly. The doctors in District 13 had helped somewhat, but I know I'm still not right, that much of what I remember may not be real.

"We certainly hope so," says Dr. Aceso. Her voice expresses the gentle sincerity of her eyes, golden and mellifluous like her hair. "I've been reviewing the notes from your doctors in District 13. I believe I can continue and expand on their treatments. I've-" She hesitates a moment. "I've been researching something similar to the methods they were working with." Dr. Aceso's voice drops and she takes a step toward my bed. "You've been through so much, Peeta. We all think you deserve to get well, go home, and have a quiet life. Or whatever kind of life you want."

A quiet life at home sounds exactly like what I want, but only under one condition. "What about Katniss?" I ask.

"Miss Everdeen is recovering from her burns and should be discharged from the hospital soon. She will remain in her mother's care for the time being," Dr. Aurelius replies. "It is our hope that you both will be able to live as normal a life as possible after this is all said and done."

"I'd like that. Let's get started then."

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><p>The plan was simple enough, in theory. Katniss and I both get better, then return to the remains of District 12 and try to piece together what remains of our lives. I even feel like it's working for a while. Some days, the doctors just want to talk to me, but most of my therapy consists of using drugs to re-modify my tainted memories. Dr. Aceso, who seems surprisingly adept at this process, is developing a schedule of different medications and their doses to be given when I experience certain types of memories. While I really don't understand the medical science, it seems to make me less confused than my treatments in District 13 did.<p>

On the appointed day of Snow's execution, I am told I am needed by President Coin in a meeting of some kind. What could they want me for, and what can it possibly have to do with the execution? I'm baffled. After I shower, I change into a gray District 13 soldier's uniform that's been provided for me.

There's a knock at my door. One of my doctors, a middle-aged man by the name of Dr. Albright, has come to take me by car to the president's mansion. The trip is only a few blocks, but we're silent the whole way. I have a feeling that whatever this meeting is about, it's not going to be good.

As we are being lead through the hallways of the mansion, Haymitch, wearing a matching uniform, joins us.

"What's going on?" I ask under my breath.

"Not sure, exactly," he answers as we turn a corner. "But I caught a glimpse of Johanna and Annie Cresta on my way over, also dressed in Thirteen grays. It looks like Coin's gathering the victors together."

Victors. Katniss will be here. Of course. She's killing Snow personally. The last time I had seen her, she was on fire. I can tell Haymitch is thinking something over, but before I can ask him anything, he growls, "Look, I don't know what's going to happen in there. But try to keep your cool, alright?"

"I'll try," I say.

We enter the room to find Beetee and Enobaria sitting at a large table. Johanna and Annie soon join us. No one seems to know what we're doing here.

Katniss comes in, as confused as everyone else. Despite the perceived strength of her Mockingjay suit and the deft work of her stylists on her hair and makeup, I can detect her burn scars and the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes that suggest she isn't well.

Coin enters after Katniss. I can barely listen as she explains the so-called Mockingjay Deal and the current state of Panem. I'm staring at Katniss, searching her face for information. It's like being back at school, wanting only to take her in while I'm supposed to be paying attention to something else. I quickly turn away as she raises her eyes to meet mine.

I start listening to Coin, if only as a distraction. It works. She's suggesting a new Hunger Games, using Capitol children.

The idea is absurd, and I say as much. Is this what the rebels fought for? For the right to be just as cruel and hateful as the people who oppressed us? I rant and object and protest, give every argument against the idea I can think of. I would pound my fists on the table if I didn't have to grip its edge so tightly to avoid letting my fury get the best of me. But all is in vain. Haymitch casts the final vote with Katniss, and it's done.

I try to figure out what just happened as I'm ushered with the rest of the victors to the room where we will watch the execution. It looks like we'll have a clean view through the windows. At least something today will be clear. I hear the growing clamor of the crowd outside, and I can't help but be sick at the fact that killing continues to be public spectacle in Panem. My thoughts are spinning. Why did Katniss agree to more games, and why did Haymitch agree? It makes no sense. Unless…unless she's planning something, trying to keep something hidden. What are you doing, Katniss?

I am overwhelmed by the stench of blood and roses. Snow is brought through the room and out to the terrace and a vociferous ovation. His waxen, skeletal appearance makes his surgically enhanced face grotesquely distorted in its gauntness. I don't think he needs an arrow to the heart to die soon.

Katniss takes aim. A nation holds her breath. And Coin collapses, dead.

I instinctively run for Katniss. Still on edge from earlier, I'm on the brink of a frenzied rage, but I know I'll be okay if I can get to her in time. Soldiers converge on her. I remember the nightlock on the sleeve of the uniform and realize she probably thinks she's going to be killed anyway. Pushing through the pandemonium, I see her. Katniss turns her head for it just as I'm able to grip the place where I know the purple pill is hidden. The pain of her bite lets me hold on to reality long enough to rip the capsule from her sleeve even as the guards rip her away from me.

I don't mind when Dr. Albright jabs the sedating needle into my neck. I've done all I can do for now.

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><p><em>Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancée. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally.<em> I mull over the list in my mind again as I walk slowly around my makeshift art studio in the Capitol hospital. I've returned to painting as part of my therapy. Sometimes, I find that painting a memory can help clarify it. I'm still not sure how well it's working, but the doctors are hopeful. They better remain optimistic so I can get out of this hospital. But when I go home, I go home to Katniss, and I'm still working on figuring her out.

I hadn't watched her trial.I couldn't, knowing what the punishment would be if she were convicted; she would die hating me because I had kept her from ending her life on her terms. It was harrowing, waiting for the trial to end, knowing even best possible outcome would leave her fractured, and the worst... I refuse to bring myself to imagine it. The only thing I could do to help her was try to get well myself. I had to keep faith that there might be something to live for. I can't give up on Katniss, on me. To give up is to die.

Haymitch had awoken me this morning to tell me that, by some miracle, Katniss had been absolved of all charges and would be returning to District 12 with him today. After telling my doctors I want to be discharged as soon as possible, I had wandered around a bit before finding myself in my temporary gallery.

Many of my paintings of the games, including those featuring Katniss, were brought in from my house in Victor's Village. These are my true memories. If only they could talk.

I'm learning to separate my hijacked self from my real self; one is a cruel weapon devised of Capitol torture, the other an injured human being trying to unravel the mystery of Katniss Everdeen, friend, lover, victor, enemy, fiancée, target, mutt, neighbor, hunter, tribute, ally. Some words are easier to wrap my mind around than others.

Examining my own artwork, the tender subtleness and care with which I paint her, I know she was never a mutt, nor do I think she was ever my enemy or target. Those ideas belong to a weapon, not to me. I lump fiancée in the same group, also a product of the Capitol's manipulation.

I study more paintings. Tribute, victor, neighbor. These are the neutral words, the words based in fact. She volunteered to take her sister's place at the reaping, making her a tribute. She and I won those games, making her a victor and my neighbor in Victor's Village. None of these words seem to adequately define our relationship.

I examine an image of Katniss aiming her bow at a groosling in the arena, her bowstring pulled taut, eyes precision-focused on her prey. Hunter? Ally? While both of these words could be thought of as neutral, they both have meaning for me. Hunters are killers, no matter how you look at it. And for her to be my ally tells me, at the very least, that she wanted me to live.

Friend? Maybe. I hope so. She helped me, protected me, even when she didn't have to. I don't know why, exactly, but it has to count for something.

Lover? The Capitol, for all the misery they could subject a person to, hadn't been thorough enough. As I dig into my mind in the attempt to heal it, I find that there are more than enough pure, untainted memories of Katniss to know that I have always loved her. But, for all of her supposedly feigned emotion, did she ever love me? If it were all forced, all pure manipulation, I would be undone. There would be nothing left for me. But if some chance exists that any of it was real, if there's a thing in this world left for me to live for, it's Katniss.

I come upon my favorite portrait of her. An ethereal image conjured out of a dream come true. I was lying in that cold, dank cave, wracked with fever, convinced I was dying. Hazy visions swirled around me, specters of bloodied tributes, my family, Katniss. Mostly Katniss.

I was having a fevered dream in which I was lost in some vast, featureless expanse filled with a uniformly dense, unrelenting fog. I hear Katniss' voice shouting my name, but she sounds like she's a million miles away. No matter what direction I run in, her voice stays faint, barely audible, desperately calling out to me, but I can't find her.

And then I had awoken, briefly, to find her hovering over me, running a damp cloth over my face, her beautiful black hair framed against the stone gray of the cave, the intensity of the steely rain, the silver of the mist in my dream, the shade of her eyes.

This memory, I'm almost certain, is real. It came to me in a rush, along with many that weren't so pleasant, when I first looked through the paintings after they had been brought here. I had to work up to being able to handle the paintings with Katniss in them. The doctors started me on landscapes of the arena and the the Cornucopia, and then progressed to other tributes as my mind attempted to piece together a true account of that first Games.

The first time I was shown an image of the rock cave, I was jerked into a luminescent vision of terror and rage, knowing that traitor mutt Katniss had trapped me here to leave me to die after having Cato slash my leg. She enters the cave ostensibly to kiss me and care for my wounds, but hisses venomously under her breath about how she's playing poor, pathetic, lover boy Peeta for a fool, how she's going to kill everyone in this arena, then everyone in Panem.

The vision continued to terrify me, even through the haze of the drugs the doctors knocked me out with after I went ballistic. I came to strapped to my hospital bed, my body sore, my mind exhausted. _That wasn't real. Katniss isn't a mutt. She saved my life in that cave._ I want to question the kisses, but I can't.

How long had it been since that episode? Eight weeks? Ten? Sometimes I feel as if I've been imprisoned in this hospital. Wanting desperately to be stable enough to go home, I've plunged into my therapy with the same determined focus I channeled when we trained for the Quarter Quell. My goal, I have decided, remains keeping Katniss alive, and I can't do that from here.

I examine the portrait of Katniss. It still evokes images of varying degrees of sheen, but as I run my fingertips over the brushstrokes, I am suddenly struck by a different memory. The memory of creating this particular canvas. I had labored over it for weeks, coming back to it even after I began other work, making every tone, every detail so precise. I became obsessed with shades of gray.

I add one more item to the list of things I know for certain: This portrait of Katniss Everdeen was a labor of love.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and exhale, exhausted. Dinner must have been over an hour ago, and even though I'm allowed to be out of my room now that I'm more stable, I should go back. No need to give anyone any reason not to send me home as soon as I'm able. So I head back to my clinical cell and brace myself for the nightly phantasmic mosaic of torture and pain, of loss and love, of bread and dandelions and Katniss.

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><p>I glance around my room. I would pack, but my only real personal possessions are my paintings, and all of them are already on their way home, as I will be shortly.<p>

A knock on my door, the second of the afternoon. The first had been Dr. Aurelius, who had wished me well and asked if I could check on Katniss. "Please tell Miss Everdeen that I cannot properly treat her if she will not answer her telephone."

This time, I find Dr. Aceso in my doorway. "Ready to go?" she asks as she walks in.

"I hope so," I reply, returning her easy smile.

"Only one way to find out," she says. "Let's go. I'll be accompanying you in the hovercraft to District 12, but I won't be staying," she explains as we make our way toward the roof.

During the journey home, Dr. Aceso verifies that I know the dosages for my medications and when to expect her phone calls. "And you don't need to wait for me to call, if you need anything," she offers. "How do you feel about seeing Katniss?"

"Nervous," I say. "I don't know how she'll react to seeing me."

"You've missed her." It's not a question. We've had this discussion before. "Remember to be patient with her, and be patient with yourself. You've seen firsthand how surviving such horrific events can change a person. But never forget that at your core, you are still the loving, giving young man you were before all this started."

"I hope Katniss can see what you do," I say.

"I think she will." Dr. Aceso normally looks me in the eye when we talk, but for a moment her vision softens, like she's looking through me. "If there was ever any love at all, you'll find it again. I've seen love do surprising things."

I want to ask, but it's not my place. Night falls well before the hovercraft touches down on the barren lawn behind my house. A curl of smoke from my chimney tells me someone has started a fire for me. Before I even enter my house, I look toward Katniss' and find it dark.

Dr. Aceso walks up behind me. "You can see her tomorrow. Try to get a good night's sleep."

"Peeta," Dr. Aceso continues softly. Her tone has changed from her normally professional demeanor, as if she is speaking to a friend, a confidant. "If you love her, hold on to her." Her voice is barely more than a whisper, and her eyes have that faraway look in them again.

"Forgive me for asking," I say, "but are you okay? Did something happen?"

"I lost my fiancé last year," she says after a pause. "He was involved in the rebellion. Snow…" her soft voice trails off. I can tell there's much more to the story, but I won't pry.

"I'm sorry," we both utter at the same time, but with different meaning. There is a moment of silence in which I stare at Katniss' dark house, Dr. Aceso into the void of darkness beyond.

"I'll be going so you can get some rest," she says finally, attempting to regain her professional demeanor.

After Dr. Aceso and the hovercraft depart, I find myself alone in a house that has always seemed large, but now feels vacant and hollow as well. Sleep refuses to come to me, so I spend the remaining hours of darkness in my art studio, where I begin a new painting.

At the first light of dawn, an idea strikes me. Grabbing a shovel from behind my house, I head toward the woods. The early spring air is sharp, and as my head clears, I allow myself to wonder what the future might hold for me, for Katniss. For us. But for now, all I can offer is a gift of love to help bury the past.

I hope she likes it.

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><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading all the way to the end! If you have any opinions at all on any part of this story, please review. Reviews are candy for my soul! LilD**

*****UPDATE 9/3/11*****

**I'm sorry it's taking me a while to post the next chapter. I had a hard time getting going with it, and I've been busy with work lately. But have no fear, I hope to have it up on Sunday or Monday! I hope subsequent chapters will come out faster, but I'll see what I have time for during the school year. Thanks for your patience! Love.  
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	2. Chapter 2 Nightmares  K

**A/N: I finally finished chapter 2! I found this chapter a bit more difficult to write, but I'm confident that things will be going in a great direction. I'm working on some of the next few chapters already, so hopefully I'll be able to get those up in a timely fashion. Enjoy!**

**Love, LilD**

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><p>Song: <em>I'm Scared<em> by Duffy

Chapter 2 – Nightmares – K

I sit handcuffed to a table in an overly formal courtroom. A parade of the dead takes the stand, one after another, to relay the misery and loss they have experienced. When the haunting voice of a shrouded judge asks each specter-witness who they feel is responsible for their fate, each in turn points a recriminating finger at me. When it is Prim's turn, my heart splinters and I collapse into sobs.

I wake to find my eyes wet and tear tracks on my pillow. Closing my eyes, I try the new technique Dr. Aurelius taught me. I inhale, focusing on the air filling my lungs, then exhale slowly. _One._ Air in, air out. _Two._ Again. _Three._ Still breathing steadily, I have lost count and fallen into a semi-wakeful state when I hear my front door open. Voices tell me Peeta and Greasy Sae are right on time.

The wet, gray morning invites me to stay in bed, although the sounds and smells that begin to waft up the stairs tell me I'll be expected for breakfast soon. But my body is as leaden as the rain outside and I can't compel myself to move.

"Katniss?" Peeta says softly through the door when he knocks. "Are you awake?" I don't answer, knowing fully that he won't be deterred so easily. I hear the door open but remain facing the wall.

"I'm awake," I manage. Although my breathing game can take the edge of the terror, I'm left feeling numb.

"Breakfast?" he offers. "Eggs and bacon?"

"No." I wish he'd leave me alone already.

"At least take your medicine," he says. This request I comply with. I know, too, that I won't be able to get away with skipping breakfast, either. Much to his credit, Peeta resists imposing a rigid schedule on me, although I know he adheres to a fairly strict routine. Instead, he lets me take my daily activities at my own pace, provided I'm eating, bathing, and following the doctor's advice. I know Dr. Aurelius talks to Peeta on the phone as well, and that they talk about me. At least they're honest with me about it.

"You can go back to sleep, if you want," is the last thing I hear before I slip off once again into my dream world of ghosts.

I open my eyes to find that the rain has subsided some. Still facing the wall, I turn at the smell of something savory to find a cup of tea, still steaming, and a plate of cheese buns on a tray atop my bedside table. Finally hungry, I sit up and eat. Sounds and smells from downstairs tell me that Peeta is still here, watching the television while something bakes. I don't mind that he uses my kitchen sometimes, but he doesn't need to. I know he's trying to keep an eye on me; I find myself both relieved by his presence and bitter that he thinks I need babysitting.

I don't remember making a decision to stay in bed, but I don't exactly make plans to get up, either. When the phone rings, I don't answer it, but Peeta brings the handset to my room. "Dr. Aurelius for you," he says as he enters. When he hands me the telephone, our fingers brush and our eyes meet. For a fleeting instant, the brief connection makes me feel as if I've been drenched in ice water.

The sensation dissolves at the sound of the doctor's voice on the line, but today his words compete for my attention with the expression I saw in Peeta's eyes. It's a look I know I've seen before, but I can't place it.

"How does that sound, Katniss?" The sound of my name abruptly reminds me that I'm supposed to be paying attention.

"I…I don't know," I mumble. I don't even know what question I'm answering.

"Well, it would be nice if you could at least attempt to get out of bed every day, for now. If hunting or even being in the woods distresses you, perhaps there is some sort of activity you could pursue from home?"

"Okay," I offer. The idea of picking up a hobby recalls my frustrating attempts to find a suitable talent after winning my first games. I cringe at the thought.

After hanging up the phone, I resume my listless state until Peeta arrives with a dinner tray. I stomach a few bites of roasted ham and bread before collapsing into an uneven sleep punctuated by nightmares of being selected not for the Hunger Games, but a talent competition in which the losers will be executed.

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><p>Skirting around the far edge of the Meadow, I make my way toward my new entryway into the woods. Since the fence's only purpose now is to keep wild animals out of the town during its rebuilding, Thom has fashioned me a makeshift gate I can slip through that's both closer to my house in the village and doesn't require me to walk through the disheveled remains of the district.<p>

When the sun had come streaming in through my window this morning, I felt the doldrums of the past few days wane. I dressed and went down for breakfast, where I told the others I'd be spending the morning in the woods. Peeta and Greasy Sae both seemed pleased at the idea.

"Unless you want gruel for dinner, you'd better catch something," Greasy Sae threatens, although I know it's in jest; now that the trains are running again, we're able to get enough food. Still, fresh meat is always nice, I have to admit, and I have a feeling I'm going to be hungry for dinner tonight, so I promise them I'll bring back something.

Mud squelches under my boots as I follow the swollen creek upstream. After several days of heavy rain, it has overrun its banks and is running more swiftly than I have seen in a long time. Stopping to rest on a damp rock, I close my eyes and listen to the roar of the rapids, finding the sound simultaneously soothing and energizing.

I open my eyes to find a squirrel scurrying across the sodden ground under a large oak tree. Silently, I string an arrow and loose it into the small animal. I can't say that squirrel is my favorite, but it's something for dinner, at least.

Not wanting to over-extend myself, I don't walk too far into the woods today, choosing to stay close to the river. After snagging a couple more squirrels, I'm thinking I should head back for lunch when a doe emerges from the trees on the opposite bank a couple dozen yards downstream from me. It's not until I've already raised my bow and nocked an arrow that I see him: a dappled fawn, still awkward on his gangly new limbs, hiding behind his mother's flank.

I lower my weapon, swallow the lump I hadn't realized was forming in my throat, and reassume the numbed state I've grown accustomed to as I head for home.

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><p>"How was hunting today?" Peeta asks me as I walk through his kitchen door. Soon after he had returned, Peeta had told me he would make lunch any time I wanted to come over. I have taken him up on the offer a few times, but I'm thinking I may start showing up more often. Dr. Aurelius wants me to establish routines that get me out of the house, and even though Peeta's house is a stone's throw from mine, it's something. I certainly don't want Peeta to think that he has to take care of me, but I appreciate his gesture all the same. I hear the doctor's voice in my head, reminding me that Peeta understands what I've been through more than most people, that he's dealing with his own struggles and might need my help, as well. If I can't do this for myself, maybe I could do it for him?<p>

"It was okay, I guess," I say. Peeta pulls our lunch from the oven. As he slices into it, I see that he's made a long loaf of bread stuffed with roasted vegetables, bits of sausage, and cheese. It smells wonderful, and I'm reminded of how little I've eaten in the past couple days. "I hope squirrel stew sounds good for dinner."

Without warning, Peeta's body spasms and the lunch plates he had been carrying shatter against the tile floor. His eyes have hardened into ice, and he struggles to remain standing as his body tremors.

"Peeta?" I cry as I realize what's happening. Without thinking, I lunge for him and try to hold him steady. "Peeta, it's okay." What a stupid thing to say. While not as strong as he once was, his clenched muscles are steely to the touch. Suddenly, his eyelids snap open, and I know that this is definitely _not_ okay.

The look in Peeta's eyes is hard, aggressive, and dangerously familiar. The last time I had seen that look, he had tried to strangle me. Knowing not what to do, terrified of what's happening, I bolt for the door and don't stop running until I'm behind my own locked door.

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><p>The next several days among the worst I've experienced since my return. I had found my medication and taken an extra dose of the little yellow pills that help quell my anxiety. The effect was that I fall into a shallow, restless sleep pervaded by the feeling of being in the middle of some vast, undefined space and having the eerie sensation that something horrific was out there, somewhere. This vague feeling is intermittently interrupted by terrorizing flashbacks of Peeta clenching his hands around my throat with murderous intent.<p>

After one such flashback wrenches me out of a fitful sleep, I catch my breath and find my thoughts begin to clear slightly. The effects of the drugs must be wearing off. From where I'm lying, I can see out the window of the room I'm in. The clear, warm blue of the spring sky outside suddenly makes me think of the look I saw in Peeta's eyes the other day when he had brought me the phone, and I remember where I've seen it before. It's the same way he had always looked all those times in school when my glance met his. A look of quiet longing.

The next thing I'm aware of is my phone ringing. I ignore it, but when the ringing returns later in the day, something tells me to answer it. "Hello?" I hear the weakness in my voice.

"Hello, Katniss? This is Dr. Melanie Aceso, Peeta's doctor," says the warm voice on the other end of the line. Peeta's doctor? Why is she calling me? Then I remember the last time I saw him.

"Is he okay?" I ask. A feeling of guilt settles in. How could I not have thought to worry about him at all?

"Yes, Peeta is recovering from his episode and he'll be just fine. May I ask how you are?" There is something about the way she asks that compels me to reply honestly.

"I've been better," I say. Suddenly, I find myself defensive. "Do you work with Dr. Aurelius? Why are you calling me?"

"I am a colleague of Dr. Aurelius," she replies, maintaining her pleasant tone. "I'm calling for a few reasons. First, I wanted to let you know that Peeta is alright. Also, he would like to see you, but wanted to make sure you were okay first."

"Oh," is all I can say.

"Katniss, from everything I can determine, you should be safe with him. I don't think he would ever attack you again, the way he did when he first saw you in District 13. In fact, I think you might be safer with him than alone. And Katniss, he's safer…with you."

There's a pause in her voice. I ask her what she means by that.

"He told me that the pain of your running out hurt worse than his physical reactions to the flashback," she says quietly. Recalling the unnatural tenseness of his muscles, I consider this. She continues, "I think, if something like this ever happens again, it might help him if you were to stay with him."

There's a pause. "It's okay if he comes to see me. But can he wait until tomorrow? And…I'll try. To stay with him. Did he tell you what caused it?" I ask.

"He said it was a memory involving squirrel stew. You should hear it from him. It will be good for him to talk about it."

Dr. Aceso says goodbye to me before we hang up. I'd been mindlessly ambling down the hallway, and it's not until now that I fully realize where I am: Prim's room. Freezing, I slowly survey the space. Late afternoon sunshine streams through the white lace curtains, glowing golden against the mirrored vanity on the opposite wall, dust motes swirling in the shafts of light. Everything remains just so: items neatly arranged on the vanity, white quilt spread smoothly over the bed, clothes crisply hung in the closet. Even amidst the panic that must have accompanied the retreat from District 12, Prim had left everything as tidy as she always had.

A small photo frame on the vanity table catches my eye. It's a picture of her and our mother; I recognize it as the same one that was in the locket Peeta gave me on the beach that night in the arena. In the bottom corner of the same frame, Prim had placed a small portrait of me.

Suddenly, the room swirls around me. My breathing shallows as my heart races, and an intense sense of dread washes over me. Collapsing to my knees, I can only think that I have to get out of this room. I fight to regain my breath and manage to crawl as far as my bedroom. I'm lying there, collapsed on the floor, when she comes to me. Everywhere I look, I see Prim's smiling face. Closing my eyes brings no relief, for in my mind I see her rushing across the City Circle, the bombs going off, Prim on fire…

Her ghost comes and goes throughout the sleepless night. When Greasy Sae arrives just past dawn, I make an appearance at breakfast but only manage to push my food around and choke down some pills. They take the edge off a little, but Prim continues to follow me today. By late afternoon, I'm slumped on the living room sofa, ignoring a phone that sounds a million miles away. It's not until he's standing over me that I remember that I said Peeta could come over today.

All tenderness has returned to him as he looks over me. He places his hands on my shoulders. Looking up into his eyes, I'm glad the first face I've seen besides Prim's is Peeta's. I realize I never even looked at Greasy Sae this morning.

"You haven't been sleeping well, have you?" he asks me. I shake my head. "Did you eat today?" I shake my head again. "Hey, Katniss," Peeta says gently. "It's not going to be easy for you and me. But it will be easier if we help each other. We're not done fighting yet, and I'm still on your team."

Peeta helps me sit up, and I rest against him as I take in his words. Dr. Aurelius had said something like that to me once. At the time, I had thought there was nothing left worth fighting for, so I dismissed him. In doing so, I dismissed Peeta as well. But now here he is, wanting back in, and I don't have the energy to fight him off if I wanted to. And his doctor thinks I might help him somehow.

"I'm going to go put on some tea and get you something to eat. Stay right here." He gives my shoulders a gentle squeeze before heading for the kitchen. As I listen to him putting on the teakettle and rummaging through my cabinets, my mind is pulled back into a different time and place, where I am doing the same for my mother in the weeks after my father's death. I suddenly realize that Peeta is right. If I don't start fighting this, I know exactly what will happen: I'll become just like my mother, too numb to do anything but give up, and Peeta will resent me for it, just as I resented her for so long.

So when he brings me tea and soup on a tray, I force myself to eat some of it, even though I don't feel hungry. When Peeta suggests I get some sleep, I agree that nothing sounds better, and even find myself feeling genuinely sleepy. I change into my pajamas and am brushing out my hair when I hear a knock on my bedroom door.

"Come in," I say without turning around. I hear Peeta's footfalls across the rug, uneven due to his prosthetic leg, and his eyes meet mine in the mirror as he walks up behind me. Setting down my hairbrush, I turn to him. Peeta's eyes search mine as if he's trying to recall something through his poisoned memories.

"Those nights on the train, I slept next to you when you had nightmares. Real or not real?" I should have expected this. We haven't yet returned to playing this game, and I'm not sure I want to start again now. Still, the thought of Peeta's arms around me in the night brings about the closest thing I've had to a happy feeling in a long time.

"Real," I reply, and almost instantly I find myself being lifted into bed and tucked beneath the blankets as Peeta settles in beside me.

Just before I slip into the sleep that so desperately calls to me, I hear Peeta whisper, "We still have each other, Katniss." My night is mercifully dreamless.


	3. Chapter 3 The Book P

Song: _Fix You_ by Coldplay

Chapter 3 – The Book (P)

I pause the tape at the point where Katniss and I sit in the sand to begin our watch. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, open them, and press play. I'm not even exactly sure what I'm looking for at this point. Every word and tone of our conversation, every gesture and expression visible in the night have long ago been ingrained in my memory.

The familiar scene unfolds before me. I tell her I would never be happy again if I were to return without her, give her the locket, and remind her she is needed at home. She confesses to need me, I look as if I want to protest, and we kiss until the lightning strikes. It's the kiss that I can't make sense of.

By now, I have pieced together enough of my memories to know some things with certainty. I know that I've loved Katniss for a long time, and that everything I said to her on that beach was sincere, even my implications about Gale, because I wanted, and still want, her to be happy.

That kiss, though. There's a quality surrounding that memory that makes it distinct, but it's not the same kind of shine of the jacker venom memories. It's something else, something…light. The only person who could possibly help me untangle this and other knots in my memory is Katniss.

But Katniss, who is among the most injured of the war's survivors, has her own wounds to heal. All throughout the spring and summer, people returned to District 12 and slowly began to dust off the ashes, slowly came back to life. But Katniss has been so much more difficult to put back together than the district. A spirit, once broken, is infinitely more complicated to mend than a building.

So I will keep trying. I have to. Katniss is alive, and as long as that remains fact, I know I can never give up on her. It's not that she hasn't shown any signs of recovery. We've developed a bit of a routine over the past several months. I sleep by her side whenever she allows it, which is more often than not. Most mornings, after we have breakfast, are spent apart. I bake; sometimes Katniss goes back to bed (although she doesn't really sleep), sometimes she wanders around her house, sometimes she walks the woods or hunts. She typically comes to my house for lunch, one of our most consistent rituals we've developed since returning to 12. In the afternoon, I like to paint. When she feels like it, Katniss will sit and watch me, the way she did when I was helping her with her family's plant book.

I remember working on that book with her, although those memories still need some clarification. That's really what I need from Katniss right now. But Katniss doesn't acknowledge her past, or her future. She merely exists in the present.

Those cold winter days we sat before the fire in Katniss' house, before the chaos of the Quarter Quell was upon us, stand out to me for several reasons. They're odd in the way they feel so…normal. Carrying her in my arms, working with her to amend the book, enjoying each other's company. At least, that's how I remember it. But this memory also rings true for me because it seems to lack completely that shiny quality I can discern in some.

I stop the video and look at the clock. After putting away the tapes, I take the bread from the oven and start to think about what to have for lunch when Katniss, game bag in tow, comes through the kitchen door. She's been hunting more often as of late. I take this as a good sign.

"Hi," she says. "What's for lunch?" This is the general nature of our current conversations. The day's activities, the weather, food.

"You read my mind, I was just thinking about lunch. Sandwiches?" I offer, thinking of the vegetables, fresh bread, and leftover meat on hand.

"Sounds good," Katniss replies. "I gathered some herbs for you," she continues as she transfers several bundles of rosemary and dill from her bag to my kitchen counter. "And look, I found the first of the fall apples." A dozen small red apples tumble from her now-empty bag.

"Thanks," I say. "No game today? Or did you already drop it off at your place?"

"I…" she starts in a quiet voice while she sinks into a chair. "I didn't feel like it today. And I knew we had meat, so I just…walked. Gathered plants."

"It's okay if you don't want to hunt," I say, sitting beside her and placing my hand on hers. "I'm happy for the herbs. I remember these two being among the oldest entries in your family's book." Something tells me that bringing up the book is the right thing to do.

When Katniss speaks again, I hear more light in her voice than I have in a long time. "I'm glad I still have it, after everything. It's like…being able to hang on to my family, keep them with me."

Katniss sits quietly as I go to put lunch together. It's rare for her to talk so much and so candidly about subjects that I know are painful for her. When I speak to Dr. Aurelius, he tells me that I should encourage her to talk, but not push it if she seems overly emotional or distressed, which is probably what I would do anyway. So I follow both his advice and my own instinct and let Katniss be.

"You know," she says as we eat, "there are a few new additions I could make to the plant book. If you want to help me?"

"That's a great idea, Katniss. Of course I'll help you." It's the first activity she's wanted to do in months. My hope that Katniss can recover surges, but I try not to let it get the best of me. Even if this turns out well, it will still only be one step on a very long journey.

We spend the afternoon in my art studio adding new information that Katniss had picked up in District 13. Going back through the old pages, I touch up colors in some places while she checks over the information. It's a quiet, subdued activity by almost any measure, and yet I feel this is the most meaningful interaction I've had with Katniss since our return home.

We are just wondering if there is anything else the book needs when my phone rings. "Doctor time," says Katniss. "I better go home. Wouldn't want to keep Dr. Aurelius waiting."

"Can I come by for dinner?" I ask hopefully. An invitation to dinner usually means an invitation to spend the night, and if emotional closeness is too painful for Katniss right now, at least the physical closeness of our nights together helps me somewhat. It helps her, too, of course.

"Sure," she says, and for a brief moment I think I can barely discern a faint smile play across her face.

I find myself awake before dawn the following morning, her small form warm in my arms, still sleeping. Without warning, Katniss' body twinges and she cries out in her sleep. I brace myself around her, as if doing so can shelter her from the terrors she faces in the night. There is nothing I wouldn't give to be able to reach into her mind and pluck out her tortured thoughts.

We sit with steaming mugs of tea in front of us and munch on a breakfast of bread, apples, and cheese. Although Greasy Sae had for many weeks obligingly cooked two meals a day for Katniss and later me as well, I had decided some weeks ago that breakfast was easy enough to take care of by ourselves. Now, she only comes by nightly to cook dinner.

Greasy Sae actually remains on the government's payroll as long as Katniss is receiving treatment from the Capitol doctors. Katniss and I, along with the rest of the remaining victors, are still given monthly stipends from the government. While we are not paid quite as handsomely as we were under Snow's regime, President Paylor and her administration have decided that we deserve to remain provided for as recompense for all the suffering we have endured. Somehow, it still doesn't quite seem fair. I don't think it ever really will. Still, at least now we're able to fulfill my wish of having little Rue's family receive a portion of our earnings. Neither of Thresh's relatives had survived the war.

Katniss bites into one of the crunchy red apples she picked up in the woods yesterday. "You know," she says slowly as she chews, "I don't think this variety of apple is in the book."

"Let's add it, then. I don't need to do much baking today. We could work on it this morning, if you'd like," I offer. I'm trying not to be too enthusiastic, but I can't help but admit how thrilled I am that Katniss seems to be taking interest in something other than moping about and the occasional hunt.

After breakfast, I sit, focused on the small chalk pastel drawing in front of me. The curve of the fruit, its red skin lightly variegated with green, form under my dusty fingers. Without having to look up, I can sense Katniss' eyes on me as I work. I suppose being watched might make other artists nervous, but nothing could be more comforting to me in this moment.

"What do you think?" I ask, holding the drawing up for her inspection.

"It's perfect, looks just like the real thing," replies Katniss. Her eyes study the image of the apple, and then scan away from the drawing to a corner of the page where I left a smudge of red pastel that blushes pink against the parchment. I can barely hear her whisper when she says, "Prim's cheeks would turn this color sometimes, when she was nervous or embarrassed… I wish she were a plant, so we could put her in the book, too."

"Why not?" I answer back. "If the purpose of the book is to preserve valuable information so no one forgets it, then why can't we put her in there, to keep with you forever?"

"But then… we'd have to put my dad, and your family, and everyone in it. We'd need a whole new book…" Katniss' voice trails off before her eyes widen and she gasps. "Peeta! We need a whole new book! Not a plant book, but a people book."

"That's a wonderful idea, Katniss," I agree. What better way to commemorate those who had been lost, to remember them, to keep them alive? "We'd need more supplies, and I'm sure our doctors will want to know about it, but of course we can make a book for them. I would be honored to help you with it."

Without warning, I find her blazing eyes looking into mine, and I kiss her before I can stop myself. Although I'll admit that I've stolen pecks on her cheek and forehead while she sleeps, this is the first kiss we've shared since Katniss had kissed me back in the sewers of the Capitol. Then, her lips had driven the hiss of the muttations from my mind kept me sane when I had been near to turning on her.

Now, she pulls back from me, although not before she hesitates ever so slightly. "Peeta-" she starts, but I cut her off.

"No, I'm sorry. I just got carried away. It really is a great idea, Katniss." I know I have violated our agreement to keep our relationship platonic. While I don't think I could ever really think of her as a mere friend, I have decided to let her take her time.

Later that day, I'm on the phone with Dr. Aceso, telling her about the idea for the book. She agrees that it should be a good way for both of us to bring closure to everything. The doctor then turns the conversation back to me.

"Have you been watching the replays of the games, as we discussed?" She asks me.

"Yes, I've been able to watch both of them all the way through a few times," I reply.

"And how do they stack up against what you think you remember?"

"There are definitely memories I know are false because the videos prove otherwise. For instance, I know I never actually killed anyone in the first arena. When Cato sent me to finish that girl, she was a moment away from death anyway. All I did was hold her hand and say something about how much her family loves her as she died."

"Yes, that's right," Dr. Aceso says, echoing my soft tone. "I remember watching that and thinking what a sweet gesture that was."

"But there are other parts I still can't make sense of, and I'm not even sure they're related to my torture at all."

"Involving Katniss?" she asks knowingly.

"Yes," I reply. "There are moments that feel different than the others, but I can't remember what exactly made them different. I think Katniss might be the key to helping me figure them out, but I'm afraid if I ask her, she'll…I don't know, break down or something. But I want so badly to know." I can hear my voice nearly break.

"You've been so patient with her, Peeta, and I wish I could tell you something other than to hang in there. But she seems to be improving. Her idea for the book is a hopeful sign, at any rate. Support her and help her with it, and if the time is right to bring up your past together, you'll know it."

I wish I could be so confident. That night, I dream that Katniss and I are amidst a beautiful landscape, but trapped in separate cages like wild animals.

Our work on the book begins. Even before the extra reams of parchment arrive on the train, Katniss begins collecting photographs of everyone we have them for, and we start on these pages first.

Katniss starts the book with her father, as a sort of dedication page. Prim's entry consumes many days' work, and contains photos, my drawings, Katniss' descriptions, and other tidbits spanning several pages. Katniss cries the entire time, mostly silent tears that stream down her cheeks. But when she takes one of Prim's hair ribbons in her hand, Katniss fingers the soft satin between her fingers before collapsing into loud sobs. All I can do is hold her, rub her back, wipe her eyes. I want desperately to tell her that things will be okay again, but she wouldn't believe me if I did.

When it comes time to archive my own family members, it is Katniss' turn to help me through the process. I think of all the nice things I can about my mother. Although I was never particularly close to Lucca, my oldest brother, I find I have plenty of fond memories of him. My father's best traits are easy to remember: his gentle nature that made him so easy to be around, the patience with which he had taught me to bake, his own expertise in flour and yeast, sugar and eggs.

The page for my brother Marko is the hardest for me to bear. Two years older than I to the day, Marko was the closest friend I ever had. We write about how funny and outgoing he was, how he taught me to wrestle, the time he tried to beat up Lucca for accidentally giving me a black eye and ended up with his own shiner. I manage to hold off on my own tears until I describe the time he had swiped a whole cake from the bakery counter on our birthday and hidden it under our bed to be eaten clandestinely that night.

"Marko knew all my secrets," I say as Katniss writes. She looks up, eyebrows knitted together.

"He knew…about me?" she asks.

"Yeah," is all I can say. Marko had known everything about Katniss: how much I had always loved her, how hurt I had been when we came home from the first games, how conflicted I had felt about her after the Victory Tour, everything.

I still remember the day when I was fourteen years old and Lucca had seen a sketch in my school notebook, a drawing of Katniss and the initials PM+KE inscribed in a heart. Sounding all too much like our mother, Lucca had teased me mercilessly, calling Katniss a "scrawny Seam rat", but later Marko had pulled me aside and told me that Lucca was just being a jerk of a brother. With a wink, Marko had added that he couldn't blame me, that he had noticed how cute Katniss was when she brought her little sister in to look at the cakes. This had resulted in my slugging his arm, which had lead to a wrestling match. Pinning me to the ground, Marko had growled, "Don't you even think about her, Peeta. Katniss has always had a crush on me. She even kissed me behind the slagheap once. I hear she kisses all the boys behind the slagheap…"

_No._ I perceive the saturated golden tones pervading the memory as I feel my body start to tense up.

"Peeta, it's Katniss. I'm here. I'm here. Peeta…" The sound of her voice and the sight of her beautiful face in front of me bring me back to where I am: Sitting on the sofa in Katniss' living room as we work on our book. Her eyes are awash with fear and concern. I realize I have an iron grip on her hand, and I'm crushing her small fingers.

Loosening my grip, I take a deep breath as I take in the worried face in front of mine.

"Was it Marko?" she asks. "Did they mess with memories of him?"

"Yes," I say, "but really only to change my perception of you. In that memory, it sounded as if Marko had told me you had kissed him, and we were fighting. But it didn't really happen, of course. No, he thought- he said we would look cute together." I feel my cheeks go pink as I recall what had really happened that night. We had wrestled, but only in sport. Marko had even let me try to pin him a few times just for the practice before he had eventually bested me. He then jokingly offered to bust Gale Hawthorn's face, if I thought that might help my chances. I remember laughing at the time, thinking I would never have a chance with Katniss. But now…

"Katniss?" I ask gently. "Can I ask you something? You know, like real or not real?"

"I guess," she says, her voice tentative.

"You've been confused about your feelings for me," I say.

"Real," she says, her voice shaky.

"Confused for a long time? Since the first games?"

"I- maybe." I can almost see her withdrawing into herself.

"It's okay, you don't have to answer any more right now," I say as she all but collapses into my arms. Her voice and expression have told me what I want to know.

Katniss decides to lie down for a nap, although I have a feeling she just wants to be alone for the time being. When her phone rings, I assume it's Dr. Aurelius and answer. "Everdeen residence."

"Peeta! How great to hear your voice again. Spending time with Katniss, are we?" It's Plutarch Heavensbee. I can only imagine why he's calling.

"Hello, Plutarch. If you called for Katniss, she's-"

"Not to worry, your answering the phone will save me from having to make a second call. I'm sure you've seen my newest television specials, yes?"

I don't watch much television now that there's no longer any required viewing, but I actually had caught most of an early morning rerun of one of Plutarch's shows while I was waiting for dough to rise one day last week. He's doing a series on the rebuilding of Panem after the war. It's called _The Rebirth of a Nation: The Formation and Unification of the Republic of Panem et Populi_, and it highlights the rebuilding efforts in the Capitol and some of the districts. The particular episode I had seen focused on plans for a memorial in the City Circle.

"I've caught a bit of them," I tell Plutarch, wary as to his intentions.

"Good, then you're familiar with the angle I've been taking," he replies.

"You mean all the interviews, the people talking about the horrors and injustices suffered under Snow, and how the new Republic is going to bring a new day to Panem?" I ask, recalling scenes I had watched.

"Yes, that's been my general take on it. Well, as you can see, we're taking a very human approach to the series, featuring people and stories ordinary citizens can identify with. We've received good feedback so far, but we feel they need…more."

"You mean they need us," I shoot back. There's no way. Not yet, at least. The last thing Katniss needs right now is Plutarch's cameras in her face.

"The people have always responded so well to the two of you, and we'd love to catch up with-"

"Look, Plutarch," I cut him off, blood beginning to boil under my skin. "Katniss never wanted to be the face of anything. No one asked her to be the Mockingjay, to bear the weight of all she's had to go through. If we were really fighting for freedom, please let Katniss have hers now. She's earned it."

"Well," he says. He seems a little taken aback. "I merely wanted to extend the invitation for an interview."

"Well, I'll pass along the message," I say.

"They tell me the rebuilding is beginning in District 12 will begin in proper this spring," Plutarch continues, changing the subject. It's nice to hear that the new government hasn't forgotten about our dusty little district, at any rate.

"Yeah, the cleaning up took a long time. There was a lot of rubble, ash. Bodies." My voice grows soft as I think of all I'd seen over the past few months. I continue to keep the cleanup and construction teams in fresh bread, and during deliveries I've witnessed firsthand the bleak reality that remains in District 12.

"Peeta, the reconstruction is slower than we all would like, but do know the Republic is making every effort to rebuild Panem bigger and better than ever before. Did you hear about the plans for a new medicine factory in Twelve? They plan to lay the foundation as soon as the ground thaws this spring. I'll be out there to cover it, of course, when it happens."

"Of course," I say. I didn't know about the factory. I think about the jobs it will bring, the opportunities and the people. Maybe this really will work out, it just needs time. Like Katniss needs time.

"I'll tell Katniss you called," I say, suddenly wanting to be with her and off the phone with Plutarch. "But don't expect her to say yes to anything. At least not yet."

"Thank you for relaying the message. We'll be in touch, Peeta."

We hang up, and I'm soon climbing the stairs and knocking softly on Katniss' bedroom door.

"Come in," she replies. "Who was on the phone?" she asks as I enter.

"Plutarch," I say, sitting next to where she lies on the bed. Responding to the sudden widening of her eyes, I quickly follow with, "It's okay, told him no." I gently take her hand and stroke the back of it with my thumb. Katniss smiles up at me.

"He wanted to put us on T.V.?" she guesses correctly.

"Yeah," I say. "I don't even know for what, specifically. I didn't let him get that far." I find I'm smiling by now too, although I don't know why. "He's doing a series about the rebuilding efforts. Maybe you should watch some, they're pretty good. They remind me of those _We Remember_ propos in a way."

"I don't know," she says, which I take for a no.

"It's okay." Without thinking, I lean down and kiss her cheek. I don't realize what I've done until I see her eyes, expression unreadable, widen slightly. "Oh," I start.

"It's okay," she says softly. "I don't…I mean, don't expect me to, but it's okay," she manages. She's smiling again, if only ever so slightly, so I bend down and kiss her again, since I can. Once more on the lips. This, too, is accepted, and now we're both smiling. I make a mental note to remember this moment, to cherish it.

Maybe everything really is okay. Or it will be. It could be.

A few nights later, Katniss' thrashing wakes me. Normally, she screams herself awake from nightmares. But tonight, her eyes are wild and her body convulses violently, but she can't utter a sound, even after I calm her and ask her what happened. So I lie her back down, and as I lean over her, I can't help but kiss her.

My Mockingjay, with her broken wings and silenced voice.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Chapter 4 has been a little slow going, but I promise it's in the works! A huge thank you to all of my reviewers for your feedback. I'm thrilled that you enjoy my writing - I know I have a great time doing it! Love.**


	4. Chapter 4 The Living K

Song: "Paradise" by Coldplay

Chapter 4 - The Living (K)

I turn the small brass key in the lock of my post box at the train station, and I'm surprised by how full it is. Normally, my mail is little more than statements from my financial account held at a Capitol bank, a few bills, maybe a letter from my mother. Gale's written once, but the envelope still lies unopened on the desk in the study.

Back at home, I sort through the week's post. I set aside the statements and bills for later. I'm actually learning to manage my own budgets, now that my mother doesn't live with me, but I'll take care of that later. Thumbing through the letters, I find one each from my mother, Delly Cartwright, Plutarch Heavensbee, and Gale. There's also an official-looking envelope from the office of the president. This last one both intrigues and scares me, so I decided to open my mother's first.

_Dear Katniss,_

_ I hope, as always, that you are doing well. I'm still working on putting together all the information you wanted from me about people I knew. I promise to send it along as soon as it's ready._

_ I think of Prim every day, too, sweetheart. Sometimes I think I see her, too. She's always with me. I think now I have to be twice the healer I ever was, if I can, to even begin to make up for her loss. I miss you as well, but I hope you understand why I can't go back there yet. Maybe one day._

_ It looks like I'll be leaving District 4 in a few weeks. I'll be headed to the new hospital in District 7 to help train the nurses there. I've really enjoyed being near the sea here in 4, but I think a change of weather might be nice. I do miss the seasons back home._

_ I hope Peeta is well. Please let me know if you're able to come visit me, I'd love to see you. Take care, and let me know if you need anything._

_ Love,_

_ Mom_

I had last written her a few weeks ago, after Prim had haunted my dreams for nights on end and was creeping back into my waking vision as well. She comes and goes. I don't know if it's just a dream, a hallucination, or if she is actually there. Sometimes I hear her voice, clear as anything, and once I could swear I woke with her small, warm body tucked against mine, but found nothing when I opened my eyes.

Does she really see Prim, the way I do? I wonder. I'm glad, at least, that she's working and keeping busy. She must be doing well if she's been assigned a new job.

Temporarily pushing thoughts of my mother aside, I let my curiosity about the official letter get the best of me. I run the edge of my knife against the top crease of the heavy parchment envelope and remove a typed letter on matching stationery.

_Miss Katniss Everdeen:_

_ Hello, we hope this finds you in good health and good spirits. We are writing to tell you that, upon review of your records and testimony of your physicians, your probationary period will terminate effective January 1. After this time, all travel restrictions will be lifted, and you are granted full rights and freedoms afforded as a citizen of the Republic of Panem et Populi._

_ You will continue to receive your monthly stipends as set forth in the documents you received last spring. Additionally, all medical expenses related to mental and physical injury sustained in service to the Republic will continue to be covered in full. While we cannot and will not dictate your future from this point forward, it is our sincerest hope that you use your prodigious talents to better yourself and the Republic however you best see fit._

_ Should you have any questions or concerns, feel free to contact us at the enclosed telephone number or address. Thank you again for your service to the people of the Republic._

_ Kind regards,_

_ The Office of President Regina Paylor_

So that's it? I'm free to do as I please? Maybe with the end of the travel restriction I could visit my mother. The thought does raise my spirits some; I'll consider it.

When I go to put the letter back in its envelope, I find another, smaller piece of parchment I must have overlooked earlier. Unfolding it, I find a note written in what I can only assume is the president's own slanted print.

_Dear Katniss,_

_ I do sincerely hope you are well. Please know that you have the full support of my administration for as long as I remain in office. If there is anything we can do to help, don't hesitate to ask._

_ Best,_

_ R. Paylor_

It crosses my mind that if I hadn't killed Coin, Paylor wouldn't be where she is now. Somehow I feel that she's not merely repaying a favor, but I can't imagine what she could do for me right now, other than leave me alone. At lease it sounds as though the new government doesn't want to be too involved in my life.

As I put down the note, a strange feeling floods me. Nearly two years ago, President Snow was threatening the lives of everyone I loved in this very room. Now, I stand here reading a letter from President Paylor proclaiming my freedom. It's almost too much to believe.

My attention is drawn back to the other letters on the desk, so I open a few more. Delly writes about moving back to District 12 in the spring. Apparently, she'll be accompanying a handsome young medical researcher she met in the District 13 hospital who will be working at the new medicine factory.

Plutarch's letter contains the dates he'll be in District 12 this spring and a not-so-subtle hint that he wants me on film. As I stuff this letter back in its envelope, I see the only one left is Gale's. I consider opening it, but then think that I should read the original one he sent first.

I pick up the letter Gale had sent in early summer, but before I can open it, my mind is filled with images of silver parachutes falling from the sky, the expectant faces of the children beneath, the explosions, the aftermath…

When Peeta finds me hunched in the corner of my closet later that evening, he doesn't say a thing. But even so, as he picks me up and puts me in bed, I can see the concern written all over his face.

The letters from Gale will wait for a different day.

That night, I dream I am by the sea. My father plays with Prim in the surf, Finnick and Annie swim in the deep water, and I lie on the warm sand as the sun encases us all in splendid warmth. Across a large, grassy field opposite the water, small yellow flowers rustle in the breeze. I feel a hand holding mine, a man's hand, but when I look up into his face, all I see is light.

* * *

><p>A brisk early winter wind blows over me and rustles the scarlet leaves of the sugar maple that conceals me. With the blanket of dry, dead leaves thick on the forest floor and snow yet to fall, waiting for game in the branches of a tree can be a better bet than tracking game on foot, particularly when you don't feel up to expending the necessary energy to tread lightly enough on the crispy ground cover.<p>

Many days I still find it difficult to summon the will to go out into the woods at all, or out of the house even. But I have to try. What else is there to do? I think of all these weeks Peeta and I have been working on the memory book, as we've taken to calling it. Just yesterday, I was sitting at my kitchen table and slowly turning the pages of the book, running my fingers over the portraits, re-reading the captions, because I know it's important, somehow, never to forget anything. And there is still so much to add.

"Hey, Katniss." I hadn't even heard Peeta come in, yet his voice hadn't startled me, as if I expected him to be there. "I know I don't remember every detail of what's real or not," he had continued as he sat beside me, "but I know, beyond doubt, that our book is real, and the people in it will always be real as long as we let them live in us. And we have to go on, so they can live, Katniss."

Peeta's words stay with me as I descend from my tree to retrieve the wild turkey that will make an excellent dinner. I know he's right about our need to go on. But how can you think about any kind of future after living on the brink of death for so long? After seeing everyone you love be ripped to shreds or burned to ash, or else become so distant it's almost as if they're gone? Almost everyone. There's always Peeta.

And there he is again, pervading my thoughts as I walk home, then silhouetted in the window against the warm glow of his kitchen ovens. The day has become steely and the comfort of Peeta's house calls to me, so I quickly drop the birds in my own kitchen before heading for his.

"Mmm, smells good in here," I comment as I walk through the door.

"Thanks, I hope you like it. I've never made this before, although I watched my dad do it. Egg pie, he called it," Peeta explains as he sets a pie pan on the table. The pie looks rich and delicious, full of cheese and bits of meat and vegetables. I can tell before I even take a bite that I'm going to love it.

"Oh, wow, this is amazing," I say with my mouth full, taking another forkful before I can even swallow the first bite.

"My goodness," Peeta mocks in Effie's shrill tone. "_Just_ when I thought I had tributes with some manners!" I can't help but laugh at him, and with my mouth full of hot food, I end up spitting half of it out. "Well, I _never!_" exclaims Peeta, and now we're both in hysterics. A moment passes before we can contain ourselves.

Then, as I wipe my face on my napkin and we regain composure, the silence that follows seems heavy and strange. "Have we heard from Effie?" I ask in a small voice. I'm suddenly feeling very guilty.

"Yes, she's called a few times, but it was when you… weren't feeling well." _More like sobbing and locked in a closet,_ I think. "She's working for Paylor's office, coordinating schedules and managing events."

"I wonder if the president's table manners are up to snuff," I wonder.

"They better be, because we have another big, big, big day ahead!" Peeta finishes in a pitch-perfect facsimile of Effie's piercing tone.

"I'll bet Paylor eats with her hands." And with that mental image, fits of laughter are upon us again. When we catch our breath, Peeta's voice turns more serious.

"We ate with our hands on the train the day we were first reaped, just to annoy Effie," he says. "Real or not real?"

"Real." I wonder where he's going with this. These questions have been coming more frequently lately. I've learned to expect them if the conversation is going too well. I try to answer the best I can.

"And on a different train, on the Victory Tour, I would sleep in your bed, but it was just sleep."

"Real," I say. Sleep, and nightmares, and screams. And…kisses? How is it I can barely remember this myself? Aside from the horrors of my dreams, the image that stands out in my mind from those nights involves Peeta's warm body pressed up against mine, defending me from the chilly winter nights.

"And then that day on the roof of the training center, the day before the Quarter Quell interviews, I… I was preparing myself to die defending you, and you were doing the same for me. But we tried to forget about that, and we spent all day at that rooftop garden. That was the best day of my life." I forget that it's a question until he adds, "Real or not real?"

"I- we were on the roof-" The best day of his life? How am I to know? Suddenly my stomach lurches and I can't keep my thoughts straight. I find myself feeling confused and torn as if I'm in a nightmare, but this is real. I hear Peeta say something as he moves toward me, but I back away, not wanting his comfort right now.

Before I know what I'm doing, I find myself fleeing Peeta's kitchen and running across his yard. But instead of taking refuge in my own house, for some reason I find myself at Haymitch's kitchen door. He never answers his front door.

Forgetting that he always keeps it locked, I slam into it as I try to wrest the handle open. When the knob doesn't budge, I hammer the heel of my hand against the wood until I hear Haymitch's rough slur coming from the other side. "Alright, keep your pants on, I'm coming." A watery gray eye appears as the door opens a crack. "Oh, it's you," is apparently my invitation to come in as Haymitch unlatches the chain, swings the door open, and shuffles back to his chair (and bottle) at the table.

Haymitch takes a swig as he eyes me. "You two get in a fight?" he asks me.

"Not exactly," I say. From the window I can see the flock of geese that alighted over a month ago on Haymitch's back yard is still there, nipping at the last of the grass. "Those geese moving in? They should have been gone a while ago," I say, purposely changing the topic. Although it's true that I haven't seen a flock of geese in a couple weeks.

Haymitch grunts. "Looks that way. Thought I might raise them up, if they want to stay. Might as well have something to do."

"Yeah, might as well," I echo. "Oh, that reminds me, we still need your help with our book. If you can."

He takes another large swill of white liquor and almost spills the bottle when he puts it back on the table. "Why couldn' I?" he asks.

"Because you're a drunk, Haymitch," I say plainly. Once I began noticing people other than myself again, I had soon realized that Haymitch's drinking is as bad as it's ever been, maybe even worse. I find that I don't really want to be around him if I don't have to be. So why am I here now? "That stuff is bad for your health, you know," I say with a gesture toward his bottle.

"Life is bad for your health. I'm still alive, aren't I?"

Yes, Haymitch is still alive, and so many others aren't. But those who died so young, how many of them would have ended up like Haymitch? And who has he become: A gruff, jaded man who fights with betrayal and lies? Although he is also a man who, in spite of (or because of?) a constant need to consume so much alcohol to avoid being consumed by so much pain, has himself continued to fight against those who have wronged him. He's right, as much as I hate to say it.

"You're still alive," I reply dryly, hardly believing it myself. "Why? I mean, why did you fight, join with the rebels, after you had nothing left…"

"Nothing left to live for?" Haymitch finishes for me. "Suppose it would seem that way. More like nothing left to lose. But lemme tell you, sweetheart, for a long time I had given up. Started drinking 'cause it was less painful than thinking about them all the time."

"Your family?"

"And the tributes, the games. And my girl, Ryla. She knew Snow was threatening me, but she always said she wouldn't let them take her. When they came for her…I knew she didn't go without a fight." Haymitch's gravelly voice has taken a dark, slow cadence. I don't say anything – what could I? Haymitch's eyes are distant and heavy, and I think he's on the verge of passing out when he continues.

"And when she was gone, when they were all gone, I tried to forget. But I couldn't. For years and years, I couldn't. And then when I heard talk of a revolution brewing a few years back, I got to thinking that, well, maybe it would be better to do something. It's always stayed with me, how Ryla musta fought, hittin' and kickin' and bitin'. She could get dirty, that one. She could get dirty…" He smirks lewdly. I ignore this.

"So you joined the rebels for her?" I say. He's never revealed so much of his past, and I'm intrigued.

"For her, and my family, and all those kids I sent to off to the slaughter."

"Seems kind of anticlimactic, raising geese," I say. Haymitch just laughs. "Do you want to put Ryla in our book?" I offer.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Your book of the dead, for what it's worth girlie, is just that. Don't forget, you're still alive."

"Sure, Haymitch."

As I go to leave, he says after me, "Peeta's still alive too, you know."

I'm mentally and physically exhausted, but Haymitch's comment brings me back to Peeta. I need to see him before I can go home, if only to apologize for running out earlier. I know it hurts him when I do that.

His kitchen is empty when I enter. "Peeta," I call. Nothing. Walking through to his living room, I see him, sprawled out across the rug, his motionless body rigid. I hear myself cry out as I run to Peeta and drop by his side. He's still breathing.

The initial panic wears off and I begin to think. His doctor, I should call her. Finding her number on a piece of paper taped near the phone, I dial with shaky fingers. "Dr. Aceso?" I say as she answers. "It's Katniss Everdeen."

"Hello, Katniss. What's wrong?" I briefly explain our discussion earlier and how I came in to find him. Her soothing voice is reassuring as she replies, "He most likely passed out after a flashback. Since he's too heavy for you to move, try to make him comfortable where he is and let him sleep. Call me back if he doesn't wake by morning or if anything changes."

"I will, thank you," I say. I'm glad the doctor doesn't want to talk long.

I find Peeta a blanket and pillow and try my best to get him into a comfortable position. Managing to get Peeta settled on the side of his good leg, which he prefers to sleep on, I heavily plop myself down on the sofa as dusk settles in.

I'm too tired to move and I know staying with Peeta is the right thing to do, but neither of these reasons is why I find myself sitting in the exact same position hours later, blankly watching Plutarch's special on District 3 while Peeta lolls unmoved on the floor. When my eyes become so heavy I know sleep is inevitable, I turn off the TV and lie back on the sofa.

Sleepy as I am, rest won't come to me until I finally slip down onto the floor and nestle myself against Peeta's broad back.

I wake in the morning with a hammering headache to find Peeta still asleep, the two of us curled up together on the sofa. He must have woken up sometime during the night and moved us up here. Slowly, I realize that the pounding is not coming only from my head, but from the kitchen. _Thunk, thunk, thunk_. Someone is knocking at Peeta's kitchen door.

I slowly rise to my feet and shuffle through the rooms to the back door, where the knocking continues. When I peek through the window to see who it might be, I blink heavily, not believing what I see. Even as I open the door, the sight of the two blonde men in front of me has me agape.

I think I hear the baker and his middle son say something as the floor drops from under me and my world goes black.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Told you I'd be twisting it up! Don't worry, it will all be explained in the next chapter, which I'm over 1K words into already. I promise I won't make you wait as long for this one. :)**

**A huge thank you to all of my reviewers so far. I really do value your feedback, so keep it coming!**

**Love, LilD**


	5. Chapter 5 The Return P

Chapter 5 – The Return (P)

"We were just sitting down to dinner, not that any of us had the stomach for it. Mom was talking about the baby again, how it was some kind of ploy by Katniss to trap Peeta," Marko begins.

When I woke up with my father and brother alive and in my kitchen, I had nearly fainted right along with Katniss. We had decided to wait until she had revived before they told us everything, although my father had briefly explained that they had escaped the bombing of District 12 by a lucky accident, and then had quite an adventure.

Now, we are all sitting around my living room having hot tea and bread. Marko continues, "I was so sick of hearing that from her. I tried telling her that she was wrong, that it must be made up as part of some kind of plan by you to keep her safe," he says, looking at me. I still can't believe he's sitting right in front of me, my dead brother. "Because you would have told me if you had really done the toasting and…"

"Of course I would have told you," I say. It occurs to me that they don't actually know if Katniss had been pregnant or not. That there is so very much that they don't know. "No, you were right; it was something I made up to help protect her."

"It surprised me, too, when he said that in the interview," Katniss offers quietly.

"I didn't think it was real," Marko says resolutely. "Mom did, though, and it caused quite the uproar. It was bad enough, watching my little brother fight for his life on television, without her constantly harping on about it. By that night, I'd just had it. I…I shouted something terrible at her and ran out of the house. I didn't even know where I was going, I just ran."

"Then what happened?" Katniss asks, rapt.

My father picks up the story. "After a couple of hours, I grew worried. It was well after dark, and I knew if he was caught out after curfew there'd be trouble, so I went to find him. It wasn't hard."

"The trains?" I ask. Ever since he was little, Marko had loved trains, and the station was his favorite place in town. As a teenager, he'd often run there after fights with my mother and hide among the large freight cars.

"Yes, the trains, I knew I'd find him there. And there he was, sitting on top of a coal car. I climbed up the rungs on the side of the car, tried to see if I could get him to come home." Dad stops there, looking to Marko to continue the story. He does.

"But I wasn't ready to go yet, to go watch my brother die on TV. So we sat up there a bit longer. Then…the whole atmosphere seemed to change. Men started running up and down the train yard in a big rush. Dad and I stayed quiet and tried to keep hidden. When we realized they were readying the train we were sitting on, we knew we needed to get down, but we were too high to jump and the ladder was in plain view with railroad workers everywhere. Before we had a chance, the train started up. It was too late.

"A few minutes after we left the district, we saw it. We saw the whole thing." I hear the sadness in Marko's voice and see it in his eyes.

Dad continues for him. "The train we were on was the last of the coal leaving the district before it was bombed. And then I knew."

"Knew what?" I asked.

"That District 12 was gone, and the bakery with it. That your mother and Lucca were most likely dead. That the games had ended with either you or Katniss doing something that set off the Capitol's anger. And that Mayor Undersee had been right: We were at war."

The room grows silent, save for a soft clink as Katniss somberly sets down her teacup. I'm sure the image of District 12 on fire is foremost in everyone's minds.

"Then what?" I ask.

"Luckily, those huge cargo trains don't move too fast, and we were able to hold on. We knew we had to get off of the train before we got to a major station, but there wasn't a fuel stop until dusk the next day. We were able to climb down without being seen," Marko goes on. "We were in a mountainous region covered in pine forest. Later, we found out it was near the border of Districts 7 and 8. We found a hidden place along a small stream and stopped there. We knew we couldn't return home, but we weren't sure what else we could do. But you inspired us, little brother," he says with a smile and a jab to my bicep.

"How's that?" I ask.

"How you fought so hard to survive in those arenas. How you and Katniss helped each other live. We knew we'd have to lie low somehow until we could find some kind of help, people who weren't loyal to the Capitol. But we had no idea where we were, or where to _find_ people. But then Dad remembered Katniss."

"Me?" she asks.

"Yes," says my father. "I remembered how you found Peeta the year before by following the stream. So I decided we should do the same."

"Did it work?" Katniss asks.

"It did," Marko picks up. "We ran into a man named Porter. Well, not exactly ran into. He said he had followed us at a distance for a while to make sure we weren't a threat before he revealed himself to us. When he showed us a small bit of paper with a mockingjay imprinted on it, I immediately thought of the pin Katniss wears and I somehow knew to trust him."

"Turns out Marko's instincts were right," says my dad. "Porter, himself a refugee from District 10, was part of a local pocket of rebels operating out of a nearby town. He knew who Marko and I were, recognized us from our interviews on TV. He invited us to come back with him, join up with their group."

A vision of my father as a rebel soldier enters my head as Marko goes on to tell of how they earned their place among the rebels by taking over all cooking and baking for the group, a task everyone was glad for them to have.

Dad interrupts Marko. "There was a television at the headquarters. We saw you, in those interviews."

"It was horrible, Dad," I tell him. "They captured me out of the arena when Katniss blew it open. I wouldn't have said those things that I said, but they made me. They tortured me, messed with my mind, made me believe disgusting lies to make it seem as if I was on their side. But I never really was, Dad." I feel this urgent need to explain this to him, so he understands, even though I'm not wholly sure of it myself.

"I know, son," Dad replies quietly. This is all he says, but I know, at least, that it means he knew something wasn't right about those interviews. Never as talkative as any of his sons, Dad listens as Marko recants the rest of their tale.

They had been there for about a month as the rebels planned an attack on a hydroelectric dam. Soon after they had taken it out, the Capitol discovered them and raided their headquarters, killing several people and taking a few dozen more, Dad and Marko included, as prisoners.

"Where did they take you?" I ask

"Well, we didn't get to find out," Marko says. "They put us on a train bound for who-knows-where, but only a few minutes after we left the station, it jumped the track and everything was pandemonium. Turns out the few who had escaped the night of the raid had devised a plan to derail the train and free us. It worked. The three of them – Kert and Morris from 3, and Aelyn from 7 – had gathered some essential supplies, and we were on the run."

Marko tells of how they had survived in the wilderness. To evade capture, they were constantly on the move. As winter approached, they sought lower ground to avoid heavy snowfall, ending up on the border of a broad plain that had long ago been agricultural land, but now is so contaminated with chemicals that the water is poisonous.

Their group managed to avoid discovery by the Capitol, but in doing so had lost contact with the outside world. By spring, when they were able to travel again, they found themselves lost, unable to trace their way back from where they had come.

"We didn't even know if the war had ended yet, although some people thought it must have," my dad says. "But once the radio started getting a signal again, we knew for certain. We also knew we were close to civilization."

"District 6," says Marko. "It was summer by the time we got there. And none too soon, either, because Dad was sick."

"I don't think I'm cut out for a life in the wilderness," says Dad. "It was hard on a body that's spent a lifetime behind the ovens. And we were filtering the water, but I don't think the equipment was working as well toward the end there."

"He was in the hospital for a while, Peeta, or we would have come home sooner," Marko says. "I thought about writing, but I didn't think you'd really believe it was me unless I showed up in person."

"You're probably right," I reply. "It's all a lot to believe even with you here. I'm so glad you're home." I hug them both again, overjoyed to have them back.

"Good to be back, bro," says Marko, and I know how much he means it.

I almost believe Katniss when she tells me she'll be just fine sleeping alone tonight if I want to spend the time with my resurrected family, and because I so desperately do, I don't protest. "Call if you need anything, and I'll be right over," I say as I accompany her to her door.

After catching up with Dad and Marko late into the night, they go to sleep and I go to Katniss'. She's lying awake in her bed. "I didn't call."

"You didn't need to," I say as I slide beneath the blankets.

* * *

><p>The next morning, my brother, father, and I easily fall back into an old routine, mixing, kneading, and baking in the familiar way.<p>

"So, can I ask about the situation with you and Katniss?" my father asks.

"We're…friends," I say.

Marko grunts. "'Friends' don't usually give each other good night kisses and treat a night apart as if it were a year," he says. "If you even did spend it apart. Don't imagine for a minute that you could ever only be 'friends' with that girl."

"You think I don't know that, Mark? You know complicated things were after the first games. They haven't gotten any easier. The arenas, the war, they've taken a horrible toll on both of us. The Capitol tainted my memories to the point where I honestly thought Katniss was an evil muttation bent on destroying the world, and that I needed to kill her."

Last night I gave Dad and him the basic rundown of the past year and a half of my life – my capture and torture by Snow, being rescued and taken to District 13, my involvement in the battle for the Capitol that had landed me in the hospital – but there is still so much that they don't know. That I don't think they ever can fully understand, these men who know me better than anyone else in the world. Yet they are here now, by some unknown act of fate, and I know they can help me even if they'll never really know what I've been through.

I know Marko's sharing a similar thought when he says empathetically, "I can't even imagine what it was like, to experience what you have."

"You don't know the half of it." I instantly resent the unintentional bitterness of my tone.

"But I know how you've always felt about Katniss, and you don't have to tell me that you know you still do. I can tell by the way you look at her."

Of course I know how I feel for her, but I still wonder if Katniss ever did love me. I can hardly dare to imagine that she loves me now, but I'm certain there's _something_ there. Real or not real? Sometimes, I still don't know.

But now that my memories are clearing up, I can remember vividly certain moments in which there was a very real connection between us, fleeting instances where all pain and terror and hatred were forgotten and the only thing that mattered was each other. And for some reason, when I find myself remembering that sensation, I also recall a cave and a beach, and a feeling that no one had the right to televise such an intimate moment so publicly.

I don't realize how long I've been silent for when Marko speaks again. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"It's not that," I say as I finish sliding a pan into the oven and grab a chair at the table. "It's actually that there's so much to tell you, I don't even know where to begin. Of course I love her. That's why I'm here, because she needs me, and I need her. And I know she cares for me, and I'm pretty certain that I've mattered to her in some way or another since the first arena. But she has a lot to sort out and she needs time, so all I can do is wait and love her the best I can in the mean time. She's all I have left. I mean she was, until you two came back."

"Is Katniss still in touch with Gale Hawthorn? I hear he has a job with the Defense Department in District 2 now." Dad asks. As we had so many times in the past, Marko and I have carried on an entire conversation while Dad mostly just listened. Not that we mind much. There's very little I'd tell Marko that I wouldn't want Dad to hear.

"I know he's written her a few times, but I don't know if it's anything more than that. She won't talk about him with me. I think they had some sort of argument or falling out sometime last year, but it wouldn't surprise me if she still has feelings for him she's working through."

Marko just shakes his head. "You're a patient man, bro."

"I can wait," I reply with a smile.

"I don't think you'll have to wait much longer," says Marko. I'm about to ask him why he thinks so when Katniss walks in much earlier than usual, apparently having had a successful early hunt. So it is that my usually companionless bread delivery is completed by a party of four.

Everyone wants to hear the tale of Dad's and Marko's escape and homecoming. Most of those who have returned to the district thus far are men, former coal miners turned construction workers laboring to restore our home. While the majority of them had never been able to afford my family's bread before, they know us nonetheless and are awestruck by Dad's and Marko's adventure.

I had thought to tell Dad and Marko of all the new developments in the district, but those we meet today are all too happy to do the job for me. Thom and his cousin Allen, who've become friends of mine, fill us in on the progress of the new houses being built, as well as plans for a school. Allan speaks of his fiancée from District 13, Aimee, who will join him here soon. Others expound on plans for new industry and commerce, and Mica Hamilton takes us on a tour of the new Central Square, much of which is yet to be built. Mica is one of the few merchants who have returned to the district; his family had owned a clothing and textiles shop, and in the few years between his school graduation and the war, Mica had held a position in Mayor Undersee's office.

"This way, everyone," I say after parting with Mica, deliveries finished. "I've saved the best for last." Having visited here with me on our evening walk last week, Katniss knows where we are going and smiles. As we walk up to the partial frame of the building in front of us, my father scans the shop name scrawled in chalk on the foundation: _Mellark Family Bakery._

Marko whoops in contrast to Dad's expression of silent satisfaction. "It's twice as big as the old bakery!"

"A bit more, actually. I'm planning on having tables and chairs over here," I say, gesturing to the side of the floor where the location of the front door is marked, then to the other side, "and a big display counter here. I'm ordering these amazing electric ovens and all new equipment from a supplier in the Capitol-"

"It's Denver," interjects Marko.

"That's right, I keep forgetting." The Capitol people had recently voted to change the name of the region to that of a large city that once stood nearby. "Anyways, the new bakery's going to be great."

The mood is light as we head back home. Dad and Katniss walk ahead, sometimes chatting with each other, sometimes silent, while Marko and I fall some dozen paces behind. "You must miss Belinda," I say to him. Marko had been dating the oldest Cartwright sister for two years; their relationship began on the Reaping Day a year prior to Katniss' and my own fateful day.

"I do," he replies. "Especially now that I'm back home. Everything seems to remind me of her somehow."

"Delly survived, she was in District 13 with us. She's married now, to a scientist from Thirteen, Wenton Bloom. They're moving here in March."

"That's great. I always liked Delly; she was such a sweet girl."

"She still is. She helped me so much when I was in Thirteen. She reminds me of a different place and time, when things were normal."

"What's 'normal'?" Marko retorts. "Life's always been messed up, just in different ways."

"But I think it's better now," I say, not even fully realizing that I hold this belief until the words have left my mouth.

"Do you?"

"I do. I know it's come at a great cost, but I do think we've gained a lot, as people. And I've gained something too, in spite of what I've lost."

That afternoon is spent quietly, as we all find ourselves exhausted after lunch. Dad spends several somber hours studying our memory book, but manages to brighten up by dinnertime. Greasy Sae cooks up her best food that night, and the meal has a bright, festive feel to it.

Later that night, having wished my family good night, I lie with Katniss tucked into my arms. _Maybe everything really will be okay_, I can't help but hope as hold her tightly to me. Wishing I could give her so much more, I gently kiss Katniss' cheek and rub her back as we both fall into the easiest sleep either of us has felt in months.

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><p><strong>AN 12/26/11: Chapter 6 is definitely in the works, but it's taking a little bit longer than expected because I'm having to work backwards from Chapter 7, so I'm essentially writing two chapters at once. Since I'm off for the rest of the week (yay!), I hope to have both chapters up soon!**

**Love, LilD**


	6. Chapter 6 Winter K

(I know, I went a little crazy on the music this time, but I couldn't narrow it down any further!)

Songs: "Which Will" by Nick Drake

"First Love" by Adele

"Keep Breathing" by Ingrid Michaelson

"Shake It Out" by Florence + the Machine

Chapter 6 – Winter (K)

_It's nice,_ I think as Peeta piles our plates with eggs and bacon, _that we still have breakfast to ourselves._ Marko and Mort - Peeta's father insists that I call him by his first name - have, at Peeta's behest, taken up residence in Peeta's house. Since he usually spends the night with me, this means breakfast is nearly the only waking time he spends without them.

Today, after we eat, Peeta dons a heavy, waterproof coat to brave the frigid rain as he walks the short distance from my house to his. The weather keeps me inside, a decision I'm happy I've made when the day takes an icy turn and the rain becomes a frozen sleet. My morning is spent mostly doing my budgets. But as Peeta spends yet another afternoon with his re-found family, my loneliness and curiosity get the better of me and I find the edge of my knife running under the flap of the envelope containing Gale's first letter.

I read the words twice. Most of it I either already knew or had else guessed: He was promoted in rank and assigned an important job is District 2, where his family has joined him; he misses me, thinks of me often, and hopes I am well; and he's deeply sorry if he "was in any way responsible for what happened to Prim."

Prim. Just seeing her name in print has, in the past, been enough to evoke days of deep depression, nights of sleepless agony. But today, I manage to grip the sadness before it chokes me. I know Gale is sincere in his apology, just as I know he will never fully take responsibility for Prim. I don't even know to what extent I blame him. All I know is that her death is inextricably linked to him. And that I miss him.

Prim's is not the only name that bothers me; Gale's mention of Johanna Mason is jarring as well, and for a reason I can't quite place. I had actually grown to respect and appreciate Johanna during our time together in District 13, and I'm happy that she's found work after the war. But why does it bother me that that work is in District 2?

With some apprehension, I open Gale's second letter, the one that arrived several weeks back. What a strange few weeks they've been. This letter is markedly shorter than the first.

_Dear Katniss,_

_I can understand if you don't want to continue your friendship with me. It would hurt me more than I could say, but I would understand. I hope that's not the case, though, because I really do miss you. I love my job, and my family is here, and I even find time to hunt. But I know it would all be better if I could share it with you. But for right now, I just wish I could talk to you._

_You're still the best friend I've ever had, Catnip._

_Gale_

The guilt I've been staving off suddenly rushes over me. Guilt about how Gale and I left things, that I've been ignoring his letters, that he sometimes enters my mind when Peeta kisses me. I know I can't go on avoiding him forever. But what can I tell him?

I find a piece of paper in the desk drawer, grab a pen, and sit down to write; however, no words come to me. I repeat this process several times over the next few days, but try as I might, the pen produces nothing that sounds right.

One morning, I give up the effort in frustration and tramp off into the woods, despite the persistent, cold rain. There's not much point hunting in such foul weather, though, and I end up sheltering myself under a ledge of rock, where I find some wood dry enough for a small, if smoky, fire.

I remain here for most of the day. When I decide not to return for lunch, instead eating food I'd brought with me, it crosses my mind that Peeta might worry if I don't show up, especially if I'm not home. Or would he? I feel that he's been so absorbed in his brother and father recently that he might not even miss me if I were to skip a lunch. Maybe it's just as well—the less I end up owing Peeta, the better.

Huddled up under this rock in our woods, I want nothing more than to be able to talk to Gale. I know if he were with me here right now, it would somehow be so much easier to tell him what I can't seem to put into a letter. I'm not even sure what I do want to tell him. That I miss him, too? That I don't want to end our friendship, but that I don't know how to continue it either? I can't say that I forgive him. But maybe if I could see him, talk to him face to face, I could summon words.

While my frozen body trudges home that afternoon, a strange thought strikes me. The New Year is less than a week away, and I'll be able to travel again. What's to keep me from hopping on a train to District 2?

_Peeta, that's what,_ I think, quickly dismissing the notion. But just something about the idea of it stays with me that night at dinner, where the only answer to where I'd been all day was "out in the woods," and all through the next couple days before I find myself on the phone with Peeta's head doctor, whom I've been talking to more than mine lately.

"Dr. Aceso?" I say as she answers her telephone. "It's Katniss."

"Hello, Katniss. Is everything all right?"

"Yes. I mean, no. Is anything ever really all right? I don't know. I just needed to…talk, I guess." What is it about this woman that turns me into some kind of babbling idiot? And yet, I feel as though I can trust her somehow, that she won't betray me to Peeta and she honestly wants to help me. So I talk to her.

"How are you adjusting to Peeta's family being there?" Dr. Aceso asks.

"It's been great for Peeta. I can almost see how much healthier it's made him in such a short time. But…he spends so much time with them. I'm really glad they're back, but it somehow makes me feel more…alone."

"Have you told Peeta how you feel?"

"No. I can't just tell him he can't spend as much time with his family; it wouldn't be fair to him. What right do I have over them for his time?"

"Didn't you agree to be his friend, to help each other get well? Don't forget about what's fair to you, as well." A pause. She'll do this, give me some bit of information to think on, pause for a moment, then change the subject. "Is there anyone else you can reach out to when you're lonely?"

"I can call my mother," I say, "but she can be difficult to get on the phone and usually can't talk for too long. I spoke to her recently, to tell her about Mort and Marko. But she's always so busy at work, and that's the only phone she has access to. I write some, to Mom and Delly, but it's so much harder for me to get the words out when I write, and it's not always easy for me to find words to begin with." I'm thinking of my failed attempts to return Gale's letters. "I miss Gale," I say almost abruptly. "And every time I try to write, I don't know what to say. I've tried picking up the phone, but I always put it back down again." Why is my voice so choked up, like I'm about to cry?

"What do you wish you could say to him?" she asks softly.

"That he'll always be important to me," is all I can think to say.

"Then tell him that. If he's your friend, Katniss, he'll listen and be there for you. You should talk to him."

So I try. Not long after we have a New Year's celebration that brings me more apprehension than joy, I summon the will to pick up the phone and dial the number Gale left in his letter. At first, I'm almost glad I did. He says it's nice to hear from me and spends several minutes telling me as much as he can about his job and how he's teaching Rory and Vick how to hunt on Sundays.

But as soon as he turns the conversation to me, I forget what I am supposed to say and fumble for words. Other than getting out the woods feel empty without him, I find that I am not able to say much all. After an awkward goodbye, I'm left feeling conflicted. Now, running off to see him doesn't sound quite as appealing. Unable to make a decision, I make none.

Subsequent days are filled with anxious uncertainty. I allow Peeta into my bed at night mainly because not doing so would only invite further questions about if I'm all right. But it matters little, as I grow so numb that Peeta's embrace can barely be felt. My days return to the robotic monotony of the previous spring.

The worst of my nightmares, most of which had abated significantly in the previous months, return in full force. This time around, they focus on the first arena. The deaths, murders I saw there, and even the ones I didn't. A slow-motion replay of the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Rue bleeding out with a spearhead in her gut. The long, freezing night the muttations spent mutilating Cato. Each scene is longer, bloodier, more painful than the last, the colors and sounds oversaturated as if induced by jacker venom.

One morning, I refuse to get out of bed. When Peeta returns several hours later with a tray of food, I ignore both. But when I awake again at dusk, it's not because I am startled out of a nightmare. Instead, I gradually grow aware of the sound of low, soothing singing and a strong hand gently stroking my hair.

"Hey, Katniss," Peeta says quietly when he realizes I'm awake. His affection, combined with the look of anguish in his face, has completely disarmed me, and I know I won't be able to get away with ignoring him this time.

"Hey," I say back. I close my eyes again, lulled by Peeta's touch.

"Will you come to dinner? Dad is cooking."

"Maybe," I say.

"I wish you would." I know he won't fight me if I say no.

"Why are you still here?" I blurt suddenly. I don't mean for it to sound as indignant as it does.

Peeta takes a deep breath before he begins. "Because you're real, Katniss. Because back on that day…that day when the bombs went off in the City Circle, when I saw you on fire, I had this feeling that I can't quite explain. But it was the most real thing I had felt since the hijacking. I knew it meant that…that I love you, that I always have. And the whole time I was in that hospital, the only thing that kept me going was the thought of you. Even when I couldn't remember who you were. There were days, Katniss, when I didn't want to get out of bed, when everything made me confused and angry. But Dr. Aceso had me start a list, a list of things I know for certain. And every time I became agitated or upset or confused, she had me recite my list, so that I would be reminded that there are things I do know to be true, information that I can rely on. The first thing on my list is you."

We sit in silence as I take in this information. Then, "Maybe you need a list, too, Katniss. A list of reasons to get out of bed. Because life is going on out there, with you or without you. Except it's much lonelier without you."

"You're lonely? With your dad and your brother? But you're with them all the time now, and…well, sometimes I-" But Peeta pulls me into a kiss before I can finish, and a warmth washes over me. Not the hunger I'd felt once before, but enough to make me wonder if that hadn't been a fluke.

"Oh, Katniss, I'm sorry. I know I've been spending a lot of time with them. I honestly thought you were just letting us catch up." He peppers my face with small, sympathetic kisses between words, melting away my bitterness and making me feel closer to Peeta than I have in a long time. "I shouldn't have left you so alone."

"It was my fault, too," I say, thinking of how distant I've been lately.

"It's okay," he replies.

The next morning finds me hunting under a wan winter sun. It is the type of winter day that makes you think that spring is just around the corner, despite what the calendar says. With the cool, fresh breeze clearing my mind, I'm able to focus on my hunt, and to great results.

The lucidity of the day casts a new light upon everything. Recalling my imaginings of running off to see Gale, I wonder how I ever could have considered it an option. District 12 is my home, I owe Peeta everything, and it would devastate him if I left, yet I don't really think any of these are why I know I'm not going anywhere.

Well before lunch, I'm heading back home with all the game I can carry. When I get to the edge of the Meadow, a flash of color catches my eye and I stop. No, it couldn't be. It's far too early. But then I think about how relatively mild this winter has been. Or maybe it's just a tenacious holdout that refused to die in the fall.

Whatever its origin, I am staring down the yellow eye of a singular dandelion. No, not solitary. On a second stem is another, not a flower but a white ball of snowy seeds. In a fit of girlish whimsy, I pluck this, hold it to my lips, and make a silent wish as I blow the fluffy little seeds off their stalk. It's something my dad taught me to do when I was a little girl. The breeze sweeps the seeds across the Meadow, and the yellow flower again captures my attention.

My mind returns to Peeta, and his list. Perhaps he's right, and I do need my own list. A list for the times when I don't feel as if I can go on anymore, when the atrocities and injustices become too much to bear. A list of every good, kind, true thing I have ever seen anyone do. I begin with the actions of a brave young boy who made a sacrifice so that I could go on another day. And the brave young man who continues to do the same.


	7. Chapter 7 Real P

**A/N: Let me apologize for the delay in publishing, dear readers, but life has kept me busy and this chapter had to incubate for a while. I think it turned out well, though (although please feel free to tell me what you think). Please note the rating change, but don't worry-I did my best to keep it classy.**

**Please enjoy!**

**Love, LilD**

* * *

><p>Songs: "Blackbird" by the Beatles<p>

"Everlong" by the Foo Fighters (acoustic version)

"Undisclosed Desires" by Muse

Chapter 7 – Real (P)

All at once, spring has arrived. And early. I am on my morning delivery route, which is once again a solo endeavor. Marko, who says he finds the change of pace invigorating, has been working with the construction teams, leaving Dad and I to do the baking, an easy enough task for the two of us. And while Dad sometimes walks with me to deliver, he often says he is too tired, as he did today.

Katniss has been out of bed and hunting at dawn every day this week. I had been so concerned when she had reverted to languishing in bed. All that day, I was plagued by a waking nightmare in which I envisioned her sliding back into the depths of her mind, to a place where the distance between us has no relation to physical proximity. It would be as if living in a world both with and without Katniss, a fate seemingly worse than losing her entirely.

When I spoke to Dr. Aceso that afternoon, she didn't directly say it, but I had the feeling she thought the reemergence of my family may be a factor in Katniss' relapse, a suspicion that Katniss confirmed when I went to her that evening. I was so relieved to have found her that night, that whatever I said or did pulled her back from the hollow place she was going. Now, with Marko working in town and Dad not minding more time alone, Katniss and I have afternoons to ourselves again. We still have our nights, too, and when she's lain in my arms this past week, Katniss somehow feels more real to me than she ever has.

As I venture out into the bright blue morning, I see her as I leave my house, a speck in the distance against the fence, on the far side of a Meadow suddenly carpeted green with clover and grass. At nearly every stop on my route, people comment on the fair weather and hastening of the construction it will afford, if it continues. On the other end of town, the land around the filled-in mine shafts that became last year's experimental farms are once again being tilled for new crops. When I find Marko, we both stop for a break to share rolls and a flask of tea I brought from home.

"Construction's going great, faster than planned," he says as we eat.

"That's what everyone's been saying," I reply. "I hope no one tells Plutarch, or he'll be out here early."

"Plutarch Heavensbee? I didn't know he was coming."

"I guess I never told you. He'll be filming for TV here, when ground breaks on the factory."

"That's only four weeks away," says Marko.

"We'll have our birthday before then," I realize. About two weeks from now, actually, on March 14th.

"We'll be old men," he jokes.

"Dad's an old man these days," I say. "He's slower than he used to be. It seems like this has all been so tough on him, the war and his illness."

Marko agrees, and we sit in silence for another minute.

"I should get back to the site," he says, dusting crumbs from his front. "See you for lunch."

That afternoon, Marko returns to work and Dad retires to his room after we eat, leaving Katniss and me alone in the kitchen.

"Will you take a walk with me?" she offers.

"Sure," I reply. The breeze has picked up and is sweeping over the Meadow as we cross it, and the sun shines bravely in the open space, contrasted by the cool shade under the trees. Katniss has taken to inviting me on these walks, on her good days. Sometimes I'll lead her through town, but she prefers the woods. Today, I follow her along the banks of the stream that runs down the hillside, a path we've taken many times before.

"Can we stop for a minute?" I ask after a bit. Walking as fast as we are, and with her ahead of me, it's impossible to talk.

"Tired?" she says, teasingly.

"Nah. Well, maybe a little," I reply with a smile as we sit, hip to hip, on a flat rock overlooking the rushing creak. "You know," I continue, approaching the topic with some sensitivity, "last week, when I told you I'm still here because you're real? I meant that."

"I know," she says plainly.

"But it's more than that. It's bigger. It's that you make me real. I know that I'm here, that I'm okay, because you are. Does that make any sense?"

"Not really," Katniss says. "But I think I understand it somehow." I think I understand, too. That just as her presence steadies me, the absence of her sister burdens her. "Peeta? I'm sorry, for all the awful things I've caused-"

"No, Katniss." I stop her before she can go off on another tirade of guilt. "Everything that happened to me was _for_ you, not because of you. After having my name pulled out at that reaping, it's all been for you. And I was honored to do it." The last part is maybe more than I wanted to say, but I couldn't stop myself.

She leans in to kiss me, the novelty of which is not lost on me. After sitting in silence for some time, we fall into small talk that spans the weather, the spring, the construction, and Plutarch's impending visit.

"I was thinking," she says hesitantly at the mention of the latter point, "that maybe I'd consent to an interview. If the terms are right."

"You mean if the terms are yours?"

"Something like that. Just something small, so he can get his sound bite and get off our cases."

"I'll do it with you, if you want," I offer. Not that I'm dying to be interviewed by Plutarch, but I think doing so could be good for Katniss, and if I can help her, all the better.

She smiles. Then, "We better start heading back; it's going to start getting dark soon."

We walk home as the sun sets over the Meadow that clings auspiciously to the tepid warmth of the day. Passing around the back of her house, Katniss stops abruptly in front of the row of primrose bushes I had planted there nearly a year ago. The air is redolent with their scent, and Katniss closes her eyes and inhales. As the shimmer of a tear appears in the corner of her eye, I put an arm around her shoulders to brace her, sure that some fit of anxiety or depression is coming to take her from me.

But she leans her head onto my shoulder and smiles softly. "Are you okay?" I ask, almost as alarmed at this apparent display of calm as I would have been if she had reacted how I had expected.

"She would have liked these," Katniss says in the quiet voice reserved for memories of Prim. "But not for the same reason I do."

Our serenity is broken by a sharp hiss.

"Oh quiet, you," Katniss says contemptuously. Buttercup, after realizing Prim wouldn't return, had reverted to a near feral state, often skulking around these bushes. Not that Katniss would ever confess to wanting the beast around.

Katniss goes into her house to wash up before dinner. In my kitchen, where Dad and Greasy Sae are cooking our meal, a large carton sits on the table.

"What's this?" I ask.

"It came for you this afternoon," replies my father.

I recognize the handwriting and sender's address to be Dr. Aceso's.

"From my doctor," I say as I open it. Inside, atop a stack of books, is a letter. "They're books," I explain as I read the Dr. Aceso's note. "Apparently, President Snow had banned a great many books, and locked away the ones that weren't burned. And now they've found them, and Paylor wants people to have them. She says there's a great amount of knowledge that's been lost, that we need to read these and share them, and she'll send others when she can get them. Hmm," I continue, looking up from the letter and picking up a book. "I wonder what kind of knowledge."

I am soon answered as I look over the volumes. Histories, it seems. Accounts of the people and places of the world before our time. Well before, judging by some of them. In a lesser amount, the doctor has also sent some novels, works of fiction, an art form she said had been all but lost in recent times. She thought Katniss might particularly enjoy these.

And enjoy them she does, not just the novels, but the others as well. We all picked up a book after dinner that night, but Katniss was the first to put hers down, only to pick up another and leaf through it before discarding it and repeating the process. While she hadn't read much more than a dozen pages in one, Katniss manages to read some part of most of those books that night.

The following days find Katniss perpetually tethered to one book or another, and despite the capriciousness of her selections, she soon lands upon several favorites: a novel and a history of Panem. The former she carries in her game bag, although I rarely see her reading it and she doesn't discuss it. In the afternoons, while I paint, Katniss often reads passages from the history. The book itself is well over a hundred years old (although in remarkable condition; Snow had inadvertently preserved the books by sealing them in a vault), and it chronicles hundreds of years of information. She reads of the formation of a representative government formed in the wake of a revolution.

"It lasted a few centuries, that democracy," Katniss says as her fingertip traces a timeline in the book.

"What happened to it?" I ask.

"I haven't gotten there yet," she replies, and although her tone is good-humored, a grim expression flashes over her features.

A gust of cold wind, which had been picking up throughout the day, prompts us to seek refuge in my house, where Katniss continues to read. So it goes for the next few days as the wind, frigid and unrelenting, blasts outside. While Katniss is yet to talk much about what she is reading, I can nonetheless feel in her a change of energy, subtle at first, then more drastic after a few days, a week. And although nearly always either physically or mentally wrapped up in her books, in the times when we are together, she seems more present, more alive than I've ever seen her.

I feel it most strongly in the night. Her nightmares still won't leave her, and they often wake me. But they rarely wake her; instead, when I pull her close to me, she relents and relaxes into my arms and a more soothing sleep. In these moments, I come to realize that I love her now more than ever, that this new life within her is the Katniss I had always been in love with, the girl I knew had been there from the beginning. And yet, I'm still not certain she loves me.

I have half a mind just to ask her, and I'm contemplating doing so as we ready ourselves for bed one evening. And yet, in spite of how well she's been lately, fear of her rejection, that old inner monster that separated me from Katniss more than anything ever had, once again holds me mute. Because what would I do, if she says that she doesn't love me, or that she can't?

But as we get into bed, the ease with which she slides into my embrace quells my anxieties. Despite her pajamas and the thick blankets, Katniss is still shivering against the icy wind that howls outside. "I can sleep with the window closed tonight, if it's too cold for you," I say, shutting the window and quickly returning to her side to offer my warmth.

"Thanks," she replies. "I'll add it to my list." Katniss turns to face me, and in the light of the full moon that streams through the window I can see her smiling. I lean in to kiss her, and I instantly know that this much more than our usual kiss goodnight. Tonight, Katniss kisses me back with a passion, a hunger I've never felt before. I'm caught off guard, lost in the electric pleasure of returning the intensity of Katniss' energy, the force of her mouth on mine. My mind pulls back to those few kisses in the arenas that stand out so vividly, and know I know exactly why: This is what kissing Katniss is supposed to feel like.

Except this time, something about it feels completely different. Tonight, alone in Katniss' bedroom bathed in silvery moon glow, is just she and I. No arena, no tributes, no cameras broadcasting this to every television in the nation. This, I know, is absolutely real. And private. Perhaps Katniss is answering the question I couldn't bring myself to ask.

Just as I'm able to register a thought as to where this might be going, Katniss' hands are running across my back, along my sides, and over my hips is a way that can _only_ cause me to think about where this might be going. Where it _is_ going. I regain my senses long enough to ask Katniss if we're overstepping our bounds, but before the words finish leaving my lips, hers have found them again. "It's okay," she breathes. "Don't stop." I don't hesitate to acquiesce.

Having imagined this scenario from the time I was old enough to know of its theoretical possibility has not quite prepared me for the reality of it. I had long ago promised myself that if this moment ever came, I would do everything I can to please Katniss. Because I know it will be impossible for me to not love everything that is about to happen.

At her precipitous encouragement and my awestruck delight, we both begin to shed clothing, as we are kept warm by fevered kisses and the friction between us.

I'm aware that she received next to no medical treatment in the time she was held during her trial last year, but I am still not fully aware of the extent of her burn scars until I see them. Regrown skin stretches taut and pink over much of her torso and parts of her legs, seams of hardened scar tissue running between the colored patches. Nevertheless, as I explore and discover the exquisite forms and features of Katniss' body with my hands and mouth, I find that her scars, which make visible her courage and strength, only make her that much more perfect to me.

"You're so beautiful, Katniss," I take my lips from her just long enough to whisper in her ear.

"I want you so badly, Peeta," she replies, tugging at the waistband of my underpants, the only clothing either of us is still wearing. I resist giving into her long enough to remind her that she might get pregnant. Although I I'd be happy enough making a houseful of beautiful babies with Katniss. But she shakes her head. "I can't for now, I'll explain later."

And with that taken care of, nothing stands between me and the only thing I have ever truly desired. I take great care to start slowly, mostly so I can make sure Katniss is comfortable. I've heard a woman's first time can be painful, not that I have experience in the matter myself. What knowledge I do have comes from my brothers and the only other relationship I had beyond kissing Delly when we were twelve.

It was a while ago, three winters back. Sera Hofstetter and I were walking home from school together, which we did fairly often. We never planned to, but her parents' furniture shop was right next to the bakery, so it was common to run into her. Sera was a several months older than I and a year ahead in school, and I had long thought her pretty; I hadn't been lying when Katniss had asked me if I had ever noticed any other girls. That afternoon, a sudden onslaught of hail forced us to take refuge in the storage room of the furniture shop, where she kissed me and confessed to having a crush on me. All that winter I dated Sera, cold winter afternoons spent on an old sofa tucked into a back corner of the storage room basement, evenings on which we chatted and cuddled, kissed and caressed.

And while I found Sera to be kind and lovely, I also soon became aware that she couldn't attenuate the ever-enduring draw I had always felt toward the woman with whom I now lie. So it was with a bit of a guilty heart that I broke off our relationship. Even though I couldn't fully tell her why, she took it well enough, and we even became friends again after a time. She and Delly were the only people outside my family who came to say goodbye at the reaping that summer. Although I never regretted my relationship with Sera, I find myself in the present moment grateful that we had never let things progress nearly this far, that this moment has been saved for now. For Katniss.

I return to kissing her, giving her all I can of the tender affection she evokes in me. Before long I feel her body become accustomed to mine, and Katniss gives every indication that she's also enjoying herself, so I follow her lead. _I am making love to Katniss Everdeen,_ I have to tell myself in order to believe that any of this is real. And yet somehow, I know it is. It has to be.

Before I'd really like to be, I find myself holding Katniss tightly against my spent body, kissing her face and neck, asking her how she feels as we regain our breath. All the while, I'm replaying every second of the experience in my mind, knowing what I felt from Katniss, what she has given me on this night. But I have to ask. I have to hear her say it.

"You love me. Real or not real?"

"Real," Katniss says. And at long last, I am satiated.

"I love you so much, Katniss."

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><p><strong>AN: Thank you all so much for reading! I especially appreciate those who have added my story to your alerts/favorites, and a huge thank-you to all the reviewers. I sincerely appreciate the positive feedback - you all have helped give me the confidence and courage I needed to start my own original novel, which I'm super excited about. Love to all.**

**LilD**


	8. Chapter 8 After K

Songs: "Brighter Than Sunshine" by Aqualung

"One and Only" by Adele

Chapter 8 – After (K)

I'm lying in the soft, springy grass of the Meadow, encompassed in a delicious warmth. The sky above looks as if it were designed by Peeta's paintbrush; varying, saturated shades of blue swirl into wisps of pure white clouds, an iridescent sun casting a golden glow upon everything, colors so rich they almost don't seem real. Because they are not real. As I feel my body begin to float, I know none of this is real. Instead of rising up into the air, it's as if the ground below dissolves away, as if everything vanishes around me except the beaming sun. Every fiber of my weightless being seems to radiate life and light as I drift sublimely through indefinable space. The sun intensifies to the point where I must shut my eyes against it, only to find that the darkness, too, is bright.

I open my eyes to find myself awake in my bed. By the light in the room I know it's well past dawn, hours after we're normally up, yet Peeta still lies asleep beside me. Turning into him and nestling myself against his chest, I grow self-conscious when I realize we're both still completely naked. But the feeling of our bodies together is so comforting that I soon relax, faintly recalling how it felt to float in my dream: serene, yet exhilarating.

A rush of memories of the night before inundates me, accompanied by a brief sense of panic. But while the aggressiveness of my behavior caught me off-guard last night, I can't say it was unexpected. I had spent nearly all of yesterday afternoon home alone, reading on the soft leather sofa in my study or else pacing the hallways of the house, lost in my own thoughts. As the characters of my novels floated through my mind, so did thoughts of Peeta, and although I know the stories I've been reading are fictitious, the people in them seem so real, their struggles, while different, still so like ours, that I can't help but be bolstered by their resolve to persevere. And when two people take this journey together and become each other's courage and strength, when they find themselves together despite the odds against them, when they want each other with a desire they can't explain, isn't this love? If I had suspected I had been in love with Peeta before, I knew for certain when it felt so good to kiss him last night, when everything that followed seemed so incredibly right, when the sparks that had long been there suddenly set me aflame as never before.

And yet this morning, even though I can feel the smile on Peeta's lips as he turns to kiss my forehead, although (or because?) I allow myself to be content with this turn in our relationship, there's still a sense of apprehension I can't quite shake.

As I awaken I grow aware that I'm sore in ways I didn't expect. Familiar as I am with the stiffness that sets in the day after working muscles that have long been stagnant, it's strange to feel the sensation in this particular part of my body. Peeta turns to face me, and I put a little distance between us as not to invite an immediate repeat of last night.

"Good morning," he groans through a sleepy smile, gently pressing his lips to mine.

"Is it still morning?" I tease. "How long have we been asleep? What about your baking?" I say through interrupting kisses.

"Too many questions," he murmurs, kissing me more deeply and pulling me close, grinning all the while. My hips balk back when I realize that he is all too ready for more. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yes, just…I'm a little sore," I reply sheepishly.

"Was it painful, last night?" Peeta asks, concerned.

"Compared to everything else we've done?" I say lightly, reassuringly. "It was the most wonderful thing I've ever felt." It really was, after I had overcome the initial discomfort of it.

"I agree," he says, and I close my eyes and relax into the sensations of lips and hands which have taken on a whole new energy, as if it's more than just his skin that touches me.

"Shouldn't we get up?" I ask, suddenly wondering how late it really is and glancing at the clock, which reads well past ten.

"Probably," Peeta replies as if he dreads the idea. "I did tell Dad I'd see them at lunch."

"When did you talk to him?"

"Early, when you were sleeping so soundly I hoped you wouldn't notice. I guess you didn't. I was only gone five minutes, I just called my house to let Dad know I wouldn't be over until lunch. Even before I'd hung up the phone I wanted to be back in bed with you. And I still don't want to leave," he says."

"So…he knows?" I ask, feeling a little embarrassed.

"He's surprised it hadn't happened earlier. Don't worry, we have his blessing. We always did," he adds, planting a line of kisses down my neck.

"We do have to get up eventually," I remind him.

He smiles in spite of himself. "I suppose." More kisses. "Want to take a shower?" he asks, finally moving to get out of bed.

"You can go first."

Before I know what's happening, Peeta has plucked me out of bed and carried me into the bathroom. "I thought we could go together," he says, programming the shower to a mode I had not yet discovered that fills the entirety of the space with what feels like a warm, concentrated rain. Still holding me, Peeta steps into the shower and sits us both on the tiled bench built into the stall.

At first I'm uncertain about being so naked, so exposed in contrast to the dark of the night or the blankets which previously covered us, at least somewhat. But as Peeta gently rubs mild, fresh smelling soap suds over me, my skin melts and my nerves tingle under his sure and steady touch.

His affection once again assuages my inexplicable anxiety, and I begin to return the washing, running my hands over Peeta's muscular form. Working my way down his torso, I can see that my touch excites him, and while I feel the desire to, I know my body's not ready yet to share my newfound love with him in the way I had last night. But I remember the pleasure Peeta's hands had given me, and when I go to touch him in the same way, he is quick to encourage me and even show me how. It would have never occurred to me before to have such knowledge of my own body, although I'm somehow not surprised at how well Peeta seems to know his.

When his pleasure overtakes him, I am at first startled and think that he's going into one of his flashbacks. But I soon realize what is actually happening and find myself feeling strangely gratified in my own right as Peeta holds me so lovingly and fills my ears with honeyed words I can hardly believe to be true.

We remain under the invigorating fall of water until our fingertips are well wrinkled, and as we dry and dress ourselves, I realize that it's nearly noon. Again, I'm struck by an unsettling feeling, and I tell Peeta that I don't think I want to come to lunch today. When he asks why, I say that I want a little time alone. Which is true, although I can't put a reason as to why.

"Bring me back a plate, and we can spend the afternoon here," I offer, as if to hedge any concern he might have over my skipping lunch. But when I say it, I realize that I do want to spend the afternoon with just Peeta, that I'm not ready yet to leave the perceived safety of my house, as if doing so would leave me exposed, vunerable.

"Of course. I love you," he says, hugging me before he leaves.

I realize that although I had answered Peeta honestly last night, I've yet to say it myself. "I love you, Peeta," I reply, and he clasps me tightly to his chest in return. And like everything else so new and foreign to me, the words feel surprisingly satisfying and absolutely true. Yet someplace in all this lies a certain terror about what it implies, an unease I can't quite define.

Still, as he takes my face and kisses me, his fingertips slowly tracing my jaw as he pulls away, I know at least that my love for Peeta is every bit as real as my fear of it.

* * *

><p>In the coming days, I find that the thing most changed in Peeta is the ardency of his affections, making me realize just how much he had been holding back in the past. Even still, I know he's restraining himself. For Peeta, the change in our relationship means allowing himself to love me in the way he always wanted; for me, it means allowing myself to love him in a way I never knew I could.<p>

And while my body soon adjusts to the demands of our new activities, as I learn to ease into the physical pleasures of Peeta's gentle strength, something in the emotional intimacy of it remains…not uncomfortable, but disquieting. I don't think it's the fear of pregnancy, although I still don't think I'll ever have kids. When I was in the Capitol hospital last winter, I had a procedure done that completely prevents pregnancy for five years. I hadn't exactly been planning on having sex any time soon, but there didn't seem to be any reason _not_ to do it, and now I'm glad I did. No, my apprehension has nothing to do with my not wanting children.

My thoughts alternately calm and panic me over these days. At one point I'm on the phone with Peeta's head doctor. It amazes me how much I've come to like her, even trust her, yet we've never even met in person. Once again, I find myself almost relieved when she picks up the phone.

After a polite greeting, Dr. Aceso surmises why I've called and doesn't hesitate to bring it up. "Peeta's told me about the new changes in your relationship. First off, I don't want you to feel embarrassed about it; my professional opinion is that it's entirely natural and healthy, as long as you're ready for it. But tell me, how are you feeling about everything?"

How do I put this into words, talk about emotions and actions I've never had a real frame of reference for? "It's good," I say, starting with the most basic fact out of habit. "I like it. I love him. But…I don't know, sometimes I feel so scared of it all. Like I don't deserve it. Like it's not fair."

"Not fair to whom?" she asks matter-of-factly. "I can think of nothing more just than for both of you to be happy. And love can make you happy, Katniss, but you have to let it. I know it can hurt, or that it at least can make you very emotionally vulnerable," she says, the timbre of her voice changing. "I'm not in the habit of divulging my personal life to my patients, but if I may, I think you might benefit from knowing a bit of my past.

"I was also in love once. His name was Jason, a biotechnologist I met through the medical community. He was everything I ever wanted, Katniss. He was so passionate about everything that he did, and so smart. We were soon inseparable, and before long we found ourselves planning a wedding and buying this beautiful townhouse in the Capitol. But then…" Her voice begins to falter, losing the warmth it took on when talking about Jason. "Then, he found out."

When I ask her, the doctor goes on to tell me how Jason, and his twin brother, Jax, who worked alongside him, discovered that the work that they were told was research into cutting-edge medical technology was actually being used by the government to make muttations. A subtle remark from Jax about his distaste for the project to a friend of Dr. Aceso's who himself was a high-ranking figure in the bourgeoning rebel movement introduced both brothers to the cause.

"I wanted to join, too, but Jason refused, said it was too dangerous. He never wanted me to know too much," she says. "But I think he was involved much more heavily than he ever let on. Because when Jax grew careless and they both were caught…they didn't kill them. They tortured them. With tracker jacker venom. They became the test subjects for the very same hijacking technique they used on Peeta. Except apparently, it went wrong. They killed Jax, but Jason… They forced me to come see him, where he was being held in Snow's dungeons. He just lay there, on the cold concrete floor of that cell." He voice has dropped to a bare whisper. "His eyes were open. He was alive. But even though I was right in front of him, even though I know he could see and hear me, there was no recognition. Like I was a stranger."

I remember my own confusion upon finding Peeta a stranger to me after his hijacking. "What did you do?" I ask.

"I was able to convince Snow's people that I didn't know anything about the rebellion, which was only partially true by that point. They let me go, but I knew I was being watched very closely. I had to keep my work carefully hidden, but I spent as much time as I could researching the effects of tracker jacker venom, its chemistry, its antidotes. If there was even the slightest possibility of getting Jason back, I'd want to do everything I could to help him. When the war started in earnest, my connections in the rebel forces kept me safe, even gave me new work looking after the mental health of the battle victims. But by the time Snow's prisoners were freed, it was too late. Jason was still alive, but only just barely. There was nothing I could do for him, and he died the day after his rescue.

"I abandoned my research and plunged headlong into the work of treating my patients, not even paying attention to the current state of the war. But when I got word of Peeta's hijacking, I was quickly on the phone with Plutarch."

"Plutarch Heavensbee?" I ask, surprised that she knows him.

"Yes, Katniss," she replies in her usual calm state. "We've been friends for some time. I told him about my research and all but demanded I go to District 13 to see if I could treat Peeta. But Plutarch told me he had just been sent to the Capitol. He said I should leave the city if I could, that the battle was likely to be dangerous to civilians, but I realized I had never really considered myself a civilian in this war. So, like any good soldier, I refused to abandon my post and stayed in the rebel hospital. And as it turned out, Peeta came to me."

"And you helped him," I say.

"I had to. I couldn't let Jason and Jax die in vain. But it's more than that, much more. I knew I had work with a purpose, that my knowledge and actions could make other people's lives better, and that's all Jason ever wanted to do. Even though I'll always love him, I've learned to move on with my life, Katniss, to choose to be happy because that's what he would have wanted for me. Is it what Prim would have wanted for you?"

There's a heavy silence. Here I was, wrapped up in her story, when she drops Prim on me. Yet the truth in what the doctor has said, the emotion with which she told it tell me she is right. "She did always like the idea of Peeta and I together. She said…she told me once…" _Don't cry_, I tell myself. _Breathe._ "She said if she ever had a brother, she'd want him to be just like Peeta," I whisper. "And that even though she knew our relationship was mostly for show, that sometimes she wished it were real."

Another silence, but a softer one. "I won't tell you what to do or how to think, Katniss," Dr. Aceso says. "I just wanted to remind you that just because she's gone doesn't mean she can't still keep you going."

* * *

><p>After that initial morning of languishing in bed, Peeta had returned to his usual morning routine, saying that it wasn't fair to leave all the work to his father. As we walk from Peeta's house to mine after dinner on the eve of his and Marko's birthday, he tells me that his dad had told him to take the day off from baking. "But just the morning," he says. "I do have a cake to frost, after all."<p>

So we spend the morning absorbed in each other, leaving the soft, safe confines of my bed only to scavenge my kitchen for breakfast. After sharing a gratuitously long shower, we resign ourselves to dressing and heading to Peeta's house for lunch. That afternoon, Mort rests while Peeta and Marko take over the kitchen, enjoying their shared day and preparing for tonight.

I pass the afternoon at home, not needing to hunt today. Yesterday I took down a deer, a young buck. Hunting solo for the past year, I haven't killed a deer in quite a while, but this one was a special request for the dinner party Mort insisted on throwing tonight in honor of his sons. Peeta and Marko volunteered to haul it home, and we even have a butcher in town again. Porter, the rebel soldier from District 10 Mort had befriended during the war, had nothing left to come home to after the fighting had ended. He had been a widower for many years; his wife died of grief soon after their daughter was taken by the Games when she was thirteen, and his grown son had died early on in the war trying to defend District 10. Twelve, he decided, would be a fresh start.

As the sun lowers in the sky, I take my time getting ready for the party, putting on a simple dress and even braiding a ribbon into my hair. Walking into Peeta's kitchen, it seems as if I'm the last person to arrive. Greasy Sae and Mort are finishing the cooking, Haymitch and Porter are playing a game of cards in the corner, and Peeta and Marko are in the living room with several of their friends, new and old: Mica Hamilton, Thom and Allen, and Aimee, who has just recently arrived from District 13 and whom I haven't met yet.

Peeta's face lights up when he sees me standing in the doorway to the room. "I was just saying I should go get you. Dinner's almost ready," he says in greeting. "You look beautiful." He kisses my cheek before taking my hand and leading me into the living room.

Peeta hands me a glass of the same golden, fizzy liquid the others are drinking, and I soon find myself more at ease and begin to enjoy the party. Aimee is sweet, if a bit shy. But she has a warm smile, and I decide I like her. She and Allen will be married next month. We've all been invited to the toasting. They said they would do it sooner, but they're waiting until after the dust has settled, both literally and figuratively, on the groundbreaking of the medicine factory.

The bubbly wine Peeta had given me is sweet and light, much better than the few I've tried previously. Mort had special ordered several bottles of it for the occasion, and he insists on refilling all of our glasses as we gather around the dining room table. Before, I hadn't liked the fuzzy feeling the alcohol had given me, but tonight it makes me giddy, as if the little bubbles float through me, making me effervescent.

We all enjoy a rich dinner of venison steaks, vegetables, gravy, bread, and wine. After we eat, the cake is brought out. Peeta has outdone himself; it's absolutely beautiful. The cake is spring itself, with trees and flowers seeming to sprout out of lush grass so detailed it's nearly impossible to believe it's all frosting. Best of all, tiny frosted mockingjays in flight are suspended around the cake. On closer inspection, I can barely discern the thin silver wires that hold them up. I'm not the only one who finds the effect breathtaking.

"Oh, it's so pretty!" gasps Aimee.

"Seriously, do we eat it or frame it?" jokes Marko.

"Eat, please," say Peeta, and although it's a shame to cut such a work of art into slices, we all deem it worthwhile upon finding that the cake tastes every bit as good as it looks. Well, all of us except Haymitch, who bypasses the dessert for a full wineglass.

I need no more wine; the combining factors of the night have intoxicated me enough. When the topic of the medicine factory comes up again, I suddenly remember that this means Plutarch's visit is imminent. But this thought no longer plagues me like it once did. Tonight, buoyed by the revelry of those around me, I finally feel as though I have a plan. I still need to sort out the details and make some phone calls, and I'm scared to death of the whole thing. But I know what I have to do, whether it's rational or not..

"Hi, Katniss," says a soft voice. Pulled from my thoughts, I find Aimee sitting next to me. The cake is finished and we're the last two left at the table as the men head for the living room. I smile and nod to Peeta to let him know we'll join them soon.

"Hey, Aimee," I say.

"I just…I guess I just wanted to say thank you." To me? What for? "When you killed Coin, a lot of us in 13 were grateful, actually. My father, he's the deputy mayor there now, he worked for her. He says you did the right thing, that we're all better off now."

There's truth in her sincerity. I didn't know there was such an anti-Coin sentiment in 13. "I...I guess you're welcome," is my lame reply. What does one say to being thanked for murder? But her comment, all the same, lets me know my forthcoming plan is the right thing to do. "Let's go have tea," I say, and we join the others.

After we've seen our guests off, bid good night to Marko and Mort, and made sure Haymitch stumbles back into the right house, Peeta and I are practically racing each other back to my front door, which he pins me to the back of as soon as it's closed behind us, kissing me ravenously and kneading my body as if it's dough in his hands.

I practically jump into his arms as he bends his knees to pick me up. He carries me up the stairs and we fall into bed, my legs still wrapped around his waist as Peeta's lips leave mine only long enough to pull my dress over my head. In contrast to the tender, slow pace of the morning, tonight I am caught up in Peeta's intensity and passion, and fueled by wine and desire and love and perhaps even a hint of hope, I allow myself to succumb to it all, to feel waves of pleasure pulse though my body like never before.

But after, when Peeta sleeps soundly at my side, I lie wide awake, gripped by silent sobs. Whether they are tears of triumph or trepidation, I have no idea.


	9. Chapter 9 Confessions P

**A/N: I sincerely apologize for the unannounced and unintended hiatus of this story, but I'm glad to announce that it's back in full force. As always, please and thank you for reading, reviewing, loving, and enjoying.**

**LilD**

* * *

><p>Songs: "Feels Like Home" by Chantal Kreviazuk<p>

"Time Has Told Me" by Nick Drake

Chapter 9 – Confessions - P

The morning after my birthday, I awaken with a sense of sadness. It had been a fun day, by far the best birthday that I'd ever had. But in the end, it seems only a strange holiday, made all the more real when I realize I have to once again depart in the early morning and resume my daily work. While I don't think Dad would mind if I showed up late this morning, I can't in good conscience let him shoulder so much of the work a second day in a row. Katniss continues sleeping as I lean in to kiss her goodbye, and in the purple light of predawn I notice the dried tear tracks running from her eyes. Gently rubbing them away with my thumb, I wonder what it is that makes her cry in the night, feeling my own eyes well up slightly at the thought of her private pains.

The day is spent happily, if quietly. Marko and Katniss arrive right on schedule for lunch, the latter bearing the bundles of herbs and string of silver fish that are the products of her morning. That afternoon Dad and I both rest before we both review the final plans for the new bakery, while Katniss returns to her own house, saying she has some things to take care of.

Although we all seem tired by dinnertime, I notice that Katniss is rather quiet. This in itself is not unusual, but there's something about the mood her silence takes tonight that causes me not to worry, but to wonder. Whatever it is that's keeping her mind occupied, it doesn't seem to be distressing her. Katniss' eye catches mine, and I realize I've been staring. Instead of turning away, as I had become so accustomed to only a few short years ago in this circumstance, I allow our gaze to hold, and the small smile she gives me seems enough to calm any lingering concern over her reticence. Returning her smile, I take her hand under the table and squeeze it gently, and we both go back to our stew.

We are both happy to go to bed early that night, and Katniss is quick to drift into an easy sleep. _This is how every day should be_, I think as I pull her close to me, tired in my own right. Before I fall asleep, one more thought surfaces, one of the many buried so deeply in my mind that the venom couldn't touch it: _I want to marry Katniss_.

This thought stays with me all through the next morning as Dad and I bake, and I decide that I'll talk to Marko about it as soon as I get a chance. I don't even realize how quietly I've been working until late in the morning, when Dad asks, "So, what's on your mind?" Somehow, he always knows. So much for waiting to talk to Marko.

"It's Katniss," I begin, joining Dad at the table. He raises his eyebrows in question. "Everything's fine. Better than fine, everything's perfect. She seems so happy and well, and I know I am. And I feel so healthy, Dad, like my mind is finally working right again."

"Then what is it that's bothering you?"

"I want to know she'll always be here, Dad. I want to marry her."

"But you're afraid to ask her?"

"I really think she needs more time. But I can wait until she's ready. At least I now I feel like we have a real relationship," I say. "I'm so grateful for that."

"That's good," Dad replies. "Learning to appreciate what I do have has allowed me all the contentment I've had in life. Even though your mother and I never had a perfect marriage, I was always grateful for you boys."

My father has never discussed his happiness, or lack thereof, in his and my mother's relationship, but I rarely saw them do much more than tolerate each other. I've long wondered what drew them together, and I'm almost surprised to discover that I don't actually know.

"How did you end up marrying Mom?" I ask him. "I know you grew up in town together, but you've never told me how it happened."

"Well, you know I had wanted to marry Katniss' mother," Dad begins. "We knew each other, but only in the way all the town kids did. Calla Perkins – her name before it was Everdeen – was a few years younger than me, so I didn't notice her right away. But when I finished school and went to working full-time in the bakery, I began to pay more attention whenever she came in to buy her family's bread. She was so sweet and good-hearted, and after I time I realized how taken I had become with her. By the time she was also out of school and working in her parents' shop, we were still only friends. One day, I decided that this was the day I would ask Calla to be my girl."

"What did she say?" I asked. There's something amusing in the thought of my father as a love-stricken young man.

"I never had the chance to find out," Dad says. "She didn't come in to the bakery that day. Or the next. Came to find out she had secretly been seeing Anders Everdeen. She had run off to be a coal miner's wife and live in the Seam."

I would understand and forgive my father for sounding bitter at this, but he speaks of the memory only with a faint and tender sadness.

"It wasn't long after that when your mother began showing up to the bakery just before closing time, finding reasons to stay late, coyly asking me for favors while plying me with compliments. And even though I knew that I was heartbroken over Calla and not acting sensibly, I gave in to her attentions. It was only a few months later when we were surprised to find out Lucca was on the way, so we quickly married, and that was that.

"She was pleasant, for a time, your mother," Dad continues. "She took well to baking and was a good mother to Lucca. But my parents were not in good health by then, and they died within weeks of each other. Now that the bakery was officially ours, she took it over, and her true personality began to come out. I felt so trapped, son. I know you got the worst of her, as the youngest. I'm sorry for that. The best I could do was try to keep my head low and do the best I could by you boys."

"You did alright, Dad," I say sincerely, my hand on his shoulder. His body, once so broad and strong, now seems diminished under my touch.

"You just…" His voice falters. "You just do what you need to do to keep her, Peeta. If that means waiting to marry, then wait. She's a good girl, and you deserve each other."

"Thanks, Dad. Why don't you go rest, and I'll finish up here and make the deliveries?"

"Sure, son. I- I hope you don't think any less of me, in regards to your mother."

"No, Dad," I reassure him. I've never blamed Dad for Mom. Even though we never talked about it at the time, I always knew that he did everything he could for us.

That afternoon, after we've all had lunch and Katniss and I are finishing the dishes, she asks me to go walking with her.

"Sure," I reply, although something in the way she asks today makes me think that there's more on her mind than a stroll in the woods. She stays quiet, though, until we reach the flat rock near the stream that has become a regular destination on these little hikes.

"So I've decided something," Katniss starts as soon as we've sat down.

"What's that?" I ask. It shouldn't surprise me that Katniss wants to talk about something, but even still, a strange feeling forms in the pit of my stomach. I take a deep breath, unsure of what to expect next.

"You know that Plutarch is coming soon, and that I've consented to his request for an interview. We both have." Her voice is unreadable.

"He'll be here less than a week from now. The ceremony's on Saturday, but I imagine he'll get here a day or two before. We can back out of the interview, if that's bothering you," I add quickly, suddenly realizing that this might be what's been on her mind lately. "No one's going to make you give an interview if you don't want to, Katniss. Not even Plutarch."

"No, Peeta, it's not that," she replies, and I'm confused. "It's actually the opposite. I...I've decided that I really want to do this interview." There's an odd edge to her voice that sounds almost excited, and now I'm really confused.

"You do?" I ask, the shock evident in my voice.

"I do, and I want you to help me still, if you will."

"Of course I will." As if it's a question.

"Peeta, I've thought about this a lot. You remember what you said about doing the interview on my terms? I've decided that's exactly what I need to do." What is she saying? The measured, calm tone in her voice makes me believe that this is indeed something she's been thinking about, probably the only thing judging by how she's been acting lately.

"What do you mean?" I ask, genuinely interested in what she plans on doing.

"I…I'm not exactly going to do an interview. I'm going to tell everyone the truth, Peeta. Everything I could never say before because they wouldn't let me. About how we were used by Snow and by Coin. About everything." Katniss grows more impassioned as she continues. "Throughout this whole thing, the more I realize I've been lied to, and lied about, the more it makes me realize how important it is for me that people know the truth. I know…" Katniss steels her jaw after a sharp intake of breath. "I know I never asked to be a public figure like this, a TV personality, the icon of a revolution, a public martyr, whatever it is I ever was to anyone. But I feel—and the doctors think so too, I talked to them yesterday—that since I already am, because people will talk whether I do or don't, that I may as well tell them the truth. For once."

This onslaught of words leaves me slightly stunned. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I don't think it was this.

"I'll help you in whatever way I can, Katniss," I say, squeezing her hands and kissing her forehead. It seems like a crazy idea, but I think I understand it. After all, plenty of lies have been told about me as well, and I've put my own versions of the truth out there, whether by my own volition or not. "But will they let you?"

Katniss smiles wryly. "I was on the phone with the President's office yesterday, too. Calling in a favor."

"Does Plutarch know what you have in mind?"

"That's the beauty of it," Katniss replies, smiling wider and with much more glee. Glee. Not an emotion I'm used to associating with Katniss, aside from my feelings toward her in recent weeks. "He's going to think that the change in the interview format is a request from Paylor's office, and that they've convinced me to go along with it, not the other way around. Plutarch can't refuse her, and he'll feel like he has more control of the interview than he actually will. But this is my idea."

"What can I do to help?" I ask, becoming more convinced that this might actually work, and that it's actually a good idea.

"Do you remember when we rode in the chariot before our first Games, and we were holding each other's hands so tightly it felt as if we would fall and be trampled by the horses or worse if we were to let go of each other?" I nod. Of course I remember. "I think it might be like that."

I pull her into an embrace. "Except this time, we know what we're doing," I assure her, not wholly convinced myself. Katniss needs to believe me, though, and I need to be strong for her and help her through this. It's what she's asking me to do. I hope she would understand that she doesn't have to ask things like that from me.

Then it dawns on me that Katniss must know, and that her asking for my help has nothing to do with Katniss being able to rely on me and everything to do with her letting me know that she welcomes my assistance, that she needs it.

_We need each other, now as much as ever,_ I think as we walk home with our arms intertwined and our conversation full of ideas for the interview.

* * *

><p>The day before Plutarch Heavensbee is scheduled to arrive, I am working in the rich spring light of a brilliant afternoon sun that pours in through the window of my art studio. I chose this bedroom of the house to convert into a studio for precisely this reason. Many painters prefer the soft, bright light of dawn for working, but being a baker, my early morning hours aren't conducive to painting. Instead, I've always appreciated the warmer glow that sunlight takes on in the later part of the day, and nothing compares to the muted, golden orange of sunset.<p>

I carefully inspect the newest additions to the town: houses, shops, community buildings. From the outside, with their clean lines and muted palette, they are unassuming, but I know they are much more sophisticated than anything in the old District 12. My nose almost touches the canvas, my small, stiff-bristled brush applying the fine details of windowpanes and shutters, doorknobs and roof tiles.

Stepping back, I take in the painting as a whole. Measuring over twelve feet long and more than half as tall, it's the largest single piece I've ever attempted, and it takes up nearly the whole length of my studio. I've been working on it for over a year now, off and on. When I returned to the district last spring, it was so strange to have the place that had always been my home, Katniss, my own self, all turn so foreign to me. All of this, coupled with the renewed grief over the loss of my family, made District 12 seem so very unlike home. But in her usual way, Dr. Aceso had prompted me to find the strength within myself, suggesting I paint my home as I wish it to be, and in doing so I'll find it.

I can't help but notice the new sense of balance it's taking on. For so long, the only buildings it contained were the houses of Victor's Village perched on a hill, a rolling forest and sweeping meadow occupying the back and mid grounds. Preceding months have brought increasing amounts of people and buildings, both in my painting and in the actual town. The first structure I had painted there, long before the blueprints had been drawn up, was the new bakery. Beside it, before they had even returned, I painted Dad and Marko. I've yet to make any more prophesies, but the way the brushstrokes of Katniss' fingers intertwine with mine and the softness in her oil painted eyes seem more real and intimate than they did when I first created them, although no changes have been made by my brush.

A soft knock on the open door of my studio brings me out of my painting. "Hey," says Katniss.

"Hi," I reply, turning to look at her. Her clean clothes and tightly braided damp hair tell me she's showered since lunch, and as she closes the door and walks forward and I lean in to kiss her, the delicate scent of her skin and the soft feel of it under my lips making me want to touch more of her.

"Don't you get paint on my shirt," she says playfully as she makes an ill attempt to remove my hands from under that garment.

"It's okay, it's dry," I say, although I'm not entirely sure that's true. As I kiss her Katniss smiles, no longer bothering to try to stop me, and I swiftly pick her up and deposit her gently on the chaise in the corner of the studio. I remove my shirt before lying beside Katniss, and the feeling of her skin against mine becomes novel all over again when experienced in this new location.

I can't help but have her as much as she will allow, now that I finally can after so many years of pining for just this. Once again, as I have nearly every time we've been intimate with each other since the first (was it only a few weeks ago?), I experience a brief unease that this might not be real, that this is too good to be true, that Katniss' love is only another hallucination. And, as in every other time, I find that being with Katniss is the most real feeling I've ever had, before the hijacking or after, and I trust that it's true.

It's occurred to me how well Katniss must be feeling lately to be making the decisions that she has, and yet still I can't help but wonder, in my weakest of moments, how permanent our happiness might be. It's a thought that makes me appreciate the present all the more.


	10. Chapter 10 The Interview K

Songs: "Say" by John Mayer

"Invincible" by Muse

Chapter 10 – The Interview – K

There's blood, blood everywhere. It's seeping from the hole in Rue's stomach, oozing from the arrow wound in Marvel's neck. Marvel. I always know his name in my dreams. Also like most of my other dreams about the Games, everything moves in extreme slow motion. And the blood. There's always so much blood.

_Flowers. I need to gather flowers for Rue, before they take her._ It's all I can think, but when I try to walk through the trees to the place where I know the flowers are, I slip on the large puddle of blood and fall into it. The red liquid pools around me, hot and thick and slippery, and I can't get my feet under myself to stand. Floundering helplessly in what feels like a river of blood, I know I'll never be able to get the flowers for Rue, and I allow myself to cry because the blood is so thick that I'm sure my tears won't be noticed. _Sing to her_, I think. _At least you can sing to her._

The blood covers me everywhere, my clothes, my face, my hair all soaked in it. I open my mouth, and blood flows in. When I try to sing, all I can do is cough and gag through the gelatinous, metallic tasting goo. Resigned to drown in it, I feel my body go limp and my eyes close.

…_the sun will rise,_

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

Who is singing? I still feel the blood, heavy and warm, cloaking me, blinding me. But the voice drifts in again, soft an clear, and its interruption of a usually repetitive dream tells me that I am awake, that the warmth around me is not blood but Peeta's embrace. His soft, broad thumb gently wipes tears from my face as he finishes the song, his voice barely more than a whisper.

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you_

I open my eyes to find Peeta looking back at me. "What do you dream about that makes you cry?" he asks after a long silence.

"Rue," I utter, my voice hoarse in the early morning. "And blood. Her blood, I think. And Marvel's. I'm drowning in it and I can't sing to Rue…" Before I can help myself, I collapse into sobs and Peeta draws me into him all the more tightly.

"You did all you could for her, Katniss," Peeta says with the soft sternness in his voice I've heard many times before. "You have to know that. Remember, this isn't about what we did. It's about what was done to us, and what we're going to do about it."

He's right, and I know it. Plutarch is due in District 12 this afternoon, and our interview is tomorrow, after the groundbreaking ceremony. If there's ever a time I need to hold it together, this is it.

My breathing slows as Peeta rocks me gently in his arms, and I'm suddenly glad to be awake early. I need this morning to clear my head before facing the next few days. Not too long ago, I would have been all too tempted to find a confined space to hide in on a day like today, after waking up to so much grief.

No, not just grief. To Peeta, his song, his touch, his…love? Is this what it feels like? Although the point of my excursion into the woods this morning is to clear my mind, I find myself testing its strength against such potent ideas as love as I make my way up toward the lake. By the time I arrive at its shore, however, I have regained my resolve, despite my ongoing reservations.

This isn't the first time I've been back to the lake in the past year, but somehow I feel as if it is. Or as if I'm seeing the lake for the first time, at least. Golden shafts of sunlight reflect against the glassy green surface, and the whole clearing sparkles in its radiance, fresh and bright and alive. Before I can give a thought to how cold the water will be, I drop my bag, shed my clothes, and quickly plunge myself beneath its surface. I gasp for breath as soon as my head is above water again, but the icy chill of the lake soon reminds me that I am alive as it tingles invigoratingly around my flesh.

Relishing these last few moments of calm, I swim slowly, back and forth until I am warm, then float on my back until the angle of the sun tells me I must leave my sanctuary and return to the world that faces me.

At lunch, the main topic of discussion is the itinerary for Plutarch's visit. He's arriving by hovercraft in less than an hour, and Peeta and I, along with a few others, are supposed to help him get settled and give him a tour of the district. I can't say that I'm excited about this part, but I feel like I had to agree to do it. President Paylor did ask me specifically, saying it would mean a lot to Plutarch. The groundbreaking ceremony at the medicine factory is scheduled for ten tomorrow morning, and Peeta and I are sitting down for our interview in the afternoon.

Plutarch, like the other few from the Capitol who have had business in District 12, will be staying in one of the Victor's Village houses. When we hear his hovercraft approach, Peeta gives me a pointed look, and I know we are both wishing for this to be over.

"Come on," he says with his most reassuring smile. "We should be there." Peeta takes my hand, but on the way to his front door, I am accosted with all of the doubts I had spent the morning staving off, all the truth that stands blindingly before me. _I can't do this._

"Come on," Peeta says softly in my ear. _No,_ I think more forcefully, _I can't do this_. "We can do this," he repeats, as if he knows what I'm thinking, his lips to my temple as he puts his arms around me. Somehow, when I'm here, when he holds me so close to him that I feel the warmth from Peeta's body as I inhale the air around him, it's as if I'm breathing in his very essence, and words I've heard before sound new again, truer than ever before, and sometimes I allow myself to believe them.

Maybe I can't do this. But maybe we can.

"Katniss! Peeta! So good to see you both again. It's been too long, far too long," gushes Plutarch as he approaches us. I feign a smile and accept Plutarch's hug, which at least seems genuine on his part. Peeta is quick to step in and ask Plutarch about his flight, and I'm thankful when they are soon laughing easily with each other.

I still feel on edge, though, until I see three figures who could only be my prep team, recognizable as always by Venia's gold tattoos. Her hair, now died jet black, is styled in short spikes. Flavius' hair, which is apparently naturally a glossy light brown, has been cut short in a style that reminds me of Cinna. I notice that Flavius still wears makeup, as do the others, but the colors are much more subdued, as are their clothes. Octavia's skin is back to what I assume is its natural shade, a glowing ivory.

"Oh, Katniss!" I hear Octavia squeal, and I break into a real smile when I realize how very happy to see them I am. I don't have to say much; they fill me in on their new goings-on in Denver and their travels as the official prep crew for Plutarch's production team.

It feels good to see them well, and to hear how things are progressing in the Capitol. As usual, their favorite topics are fashion and food.

"We're all getting by on less," comments Flavius wistfully. "Sometimes it seems that we're all becoming so…plain. And there are still dinner parties, sure, but I feel they've lost some of the magic they once had."

"I was just so happy to get back to the Capitol at all, after spending so long in that horrid underground bunker they called a district! And that food!" chimes in Octavia.

It's oddly comforting, the way they sound so like themselves still in spite of all that's happened.

"They talk like that," Venia says under her breath with a tone of amusement. "But they know why things are different. It's easier, I think, to give up having at least two meats with every meal when you know that it means many others can have any at all that day."

I smile at her, unable to find proper gratitude for her sentiment. I remember when I couldn't even think of these three as human, for all their alienating vanity, and now I think I have to count them as friends.

We are soon joined by Brooks, the representative from Paylor's cabinet who is assigned to oversee District 12 until we can hold our own elections, which I've been told will be later this spring. We tour the district together, Brooks narrating for Plutarch the design and development of the infrastructure and buildings that are taking shape around us. Although the camera crews are working and Plutarch talks to Peeta and me some, particularly when we get to the bakery, we're not being filmed yet.

"They're just getting background footage," Plutarch explains, waving at the cameramen. "for underneath my narration, which we'll record later." He leans in close and winks at me. "We're saving you two for tomorrow."

_Great_, I think. _Just as planned._ I'm not ready to be on camera yet, anyways. I don't even know if I will be tomorrow. But I know I have to go through with this.

It's late in the afternoon when we return to Victor's Village, and I'm all too happy to be rid of Plutarch for now and return to the safety of Peeta's house, where the fragrant smells of dinner greet me as I enter. Walking into the kitchen, I'm greeted by a face I haven't seen since Peeta and Marko's birthday.

"Haymitch," I say, the surprise evident in my voice. He's come for dinner before, but including Peeta's birthday, I think I've only seen him twice in the past month. Never has a recluse lived so close to others but been so distant. He must have found a reliable source of liquor again, goodness knows from where.

"Nice to see you too, sweetheart," he says. "Or should I not call her that anymore, now that you two are finally an item?" taunts Haymitch, turning to Peeta who just scoffs in return. I hear Mort sigh under his breath as he stands at the kitchen counter, facing away from us.

Dinner passes in an almost awkward quiet, although not silence. Everyone makes a stilted attempt at conversation at some point, and Haymitch is about the noisiest eater I think I've ever seen. I'm not entirely sure why he came to dinner tonight, or if he has a motive at all, until he pulls me aside after saying he should go home.

"I know what you're doing, girlie," he sneers as we stand in the darkness between his house and Peeta's. "There's a reason we never gave you more information than you needed to know. Truth is a dangerous weapon, and I don't think you've got any right to give it up like that. Nobody cares, anyway."

So he knows, does he?

"They should care," I reply. "I care."

"Well whoop-dee-doo, good for you," Haymitch retorts. "What do you hope to accomplish with your little PR stunt, anyway?"

"I just want people to know. So maybe they can understand."

"So you can feel better about yourself, so you can think that people think you're a good person? You think that'll help you sleep better at night? You can't change what people think of you."

"Maybe not," I say, trying not to doubt myself at every turn. "But if they're going to think anything about me, I would rather they form their opinions on actual facts."

"You want facts? You'll be huge for ratings, that's why Plutarch wants you. There's a fact. You want the truth? There's nothing special about you. The two of you were just lucky to come around at the right time, that's all."

I have no idea what he's talking about now, and I don't care. He's drunk anyway. "Good night, Haymitch," I say firmly, turning on my heel and heading back into Peeta's house before I can decipher the slur Haymitch throws after me.

By the time we're back at my house and ready for bed, my mind has been working nonstop, imagining tomorrow's events, running through what I need to say, trying to make sense of anything Haymitch said.

"Big day tomorrow," says Peeta.

I mumble something in reply, knowing that my averted eyes tell Peeta just as much as he could discern if I were looking straight at him. He comes up close to me and puts one hand around my waist, using the other to gently lift my chin so that I'm forced make eye contact. This look in his eyes, the loving concern he's shown so many times before, seems to grow deeper every time, and I find myself increasingly lost in it.

"You've been thinking about it all night. Longer than that. We've got this, okay?"

When I open my mouth, my voice is high and tremulous. "I—I don't know if…"

"You can't think about it too much, Katniss." That calm command is back in Peeta's voice, the tone I heard this morning when we spoke of Rue. "It's the thinking about it that makes it difficult. I've seen those propos you did, though, and when you know what you want to say and you mean it, you can find the words, Katniss. The right words. Words people believe in, because they see how much you believe in them and how hard you're willing to fight for them, because they are more than just words, they are the truth. That strength, that fire, that's who you really are. Never be afraid to be yourself. Never."

I breath Peeta's words in deeply, letting them slowly disseminate through my blood. When he speaks this way, with such conviction and courage, his voice, his words, his thoughts resonate in me in a way I cannot ignore.

"Listen," Peeta continues, softer. "Remind me why we're doing this."

Why are we doing this? This was my idea, after all.

"Because people need to know the truth," I reply. "Because it feels like something I can actually _do_ for people, even if I don't know how it will help."

"The truth always helps, Katniss," Peeta says. He presses his forehead into mine and looks me straight on, his eyes deep and intense.

"Katniss," he says quietly, intimately. His fingertips trace up my back before he wraps his arms around my shoulders. "You are strong-" But before Peeta can finish his thought, his lips find mine.

"-and brave-" Another kiss, a bit longer this time, and his hands run slowly across my shoulders.

"-and smart-" His lips touch my chin before moving down to my throat. The way he kisses me here, and the way it sends a shock through my body, is a sensation I enjoy more every time I feel it.

"-and loving." Peeta brushes his lips lightly on my collarbone before turning his eyes up to meet mine, his expression still smoldering. "And anyone who doesn't see that is a fool. Be yourself, tell the truth, and there is nothing to be afraid of."

"I'm less afraid, when I'm with you," I say.

"I am, too."

Peeta kisses me in the deep and passionate way that completely takes my breath away, filling me with that strange yet irresistible warmth of desire, a feeling I'm still not used to. He continues to kiss me as we shuffle to the bed and fall into it. Sometimes, like that first night or the night of Peeta's birthday, I get caught up in Peeta's passion and allow myself to feel it deeply, allow it to consume me. But tonight, as has happened before, my mind is too preoccupied to enjoy it fully.

Still, I can't say no to Peeta, not out of any sense of obligation, but because I realize now just how much I need him, too. Breathing deeply, I do all that I can to clear my mind of all but these present, and pleasant, sensations. Once again, everything in Peeta's touch reconfirms what I've known for a while now: Peeta will always protect me. I know this not because my instincts and his words tell me so, although both of those are true. I know this because I have seen it time and time again. And I know too that I am his protector, not because I owe him but because I want to be. This, I think, is the most terrifying part of my love for Peeta, that it is based as much in desire as it is in need.

It's true that I really am less afraid, sometimes even fearless, when I am with Peeta, and it is with this knowledge that I finally allow myself to become lost in him again tonight.

_Maybe we really can do this._

The next morning dawns gray and chill, and the rain begins before we are done with breakfast. It seems as though the whole district has turned out for the groundbreaking ceremony. Although we still only number in the hundreds, our ranks have been steadily increasing over the past year.

I don't hear most of what is being said about the new factory. The words are muffled by the rain, but more so by the buzzing numbness that has taken the place of my fear. The ceremony is over quickly on account of the weather, and I soon find myself back at my house, where it has been decided that the interview will take place.

Peeta and I bypass the crew rearranging my living room furniture and setting up cameras and lights to the upstairs, where we are met by Venia, Octavia, and Flavius. Thankfully, by the time they are done with me I still feel and look like myself, although the braid in my hair is a fussier pattern than I would normally plait myself. Peeta, too, looks only like a more TV-ready version of himself, and I find calm in the realization that my requests are already being met without my having to say anything.

Mort brings us something for lunch, and Peeta makes me eat enough to calm my stomach. The hot tea, at least, warms me, and for the first time that day I feel like I am truly in my own body.

"Ready?" Peeta asks at the top of the stair landing.

"Ready," I reply, even offering a smile that feels real. He takes my hand as we descend the steps and enter my living room, where Plutarch is already perched on a chair set at an angle to the sofa.

We exchange pleasantries while the crew finishes their final preparations, and before I have time to think about it, the red lights on the cameras tell me we're on. I don't have to think about Plutarch's questions because I already know the answers to them. In our preparations, Peeta and I talked only of the topics we would discuss, deciding deliberately not to rehearse any prewritten script, knowing how awfully I'd done with those in the past.

Today, by some miracle, I am able not to shut out the lights and cameras, but embrace them. I hear the words coming from my mouth, and from Peeta's, telling of our sincere thoughts and motivations during those first games, of a rebellion I hadn't known I had sparked until it was too late, of a staged engagement and feigned pregnancy devised only in desperate attempts to save ourselves. Peeta speaks of his capture and torture at the Capitol's hand. When he apologizes to the nation for the lies he told against his will, I squeeze his hand in silent support, but his tears come anyway. It is my turn then to tell everyone that I killed Coin on purpose, that I had planned it, that I was proud of what I had done. I enumerate all the ways in which she was the same despot with a different face, all the ways which we were now better off as a nation.

"The hell that we've been put through, as individuals and as a nation, I wouldn't wish that on anybody," I find myself saying. I have the feeling that the interview is near an end, and I try to remember if I have said everything I wanted to. Everything I needed to. "But we can recover," I continue. "We are recovering. I can tell you that the only thing that will help us truly get over the disasters we have faced is love. I know this because it is the only thing that has helped me."

I turn toward Peeta to find him looking back at me, and at this moment, with Plutarch out of sight and the equipment in the periphery, I actually do forget that they are all there and talk to Peeta as if we were the only people in the room. "I thought you were my enemy," I say, steadying my breath, "and I wondered how the sweet boy who had saved my life four years earlier could now want me dead. And it took me too long to realize that the only game you were playing in that arena was with the Careers, that you were trying to save me. It took me even longer to realize that I wanted to save you, too. But I know now that I've loved you since those days in the cave, when I was so afraid that you would die, when we both might have died if not for each other. I love you so much, Peeta, and I'm so sorry it took me so long to realize it."

And for the first time since we walked down the stairs an hour earlier, Peeta lets go of my hand, but only to put his arms around me and whisper words into my ear so quietly that the microphones can't pick them up. This whisper is louder to me than the words Plutarch says in closing, and I'm not even aware that the interview is over until the bustle of the crew starting to break down their equipment brings me back to where I am.

Plutarch, who is uncharacteristically quiet, leaves us alone and assists with the packing up around us. Before they go, Plutarch says only that I am the bravest person he has ever met, and I am oddly touched by his sincerity.

"Thank you," I reply softly. "But Plutarch?"

"Yes?"

"I think I'm done with TV interviews." The humor in my own voice surprises me, and I smile.

"We'll see about that," he replies good naturedly.

Plutarch and his company depart before sunset, and Peeta and I spend the rest of the day cloistered in my house, too exhausted to do anything but lie in each others' arms and talk of Allen and Aimee's impending wedding, of Delly and her husband moving back to the district at the end of the month, of the possibility of going to visit my mother soon. For the first time since I can remember, the future holds a tint of promise, and I can feel myself smiling as I fall asleep.


	11. Update!

AN: Hello, faithful readers! I very much enjoyed writing this story, and I hope you have enjoyed it as well. I've had a good idea for some time now about how I would like to see this tale unfold, and have decided to take a different approach for its next part.

I invite you to read the prologue of my companion/sequel to The Embers, a piece I am calling A Father's Struggle It is the journal of Peeta's father, Mort Mellark, although the prologue finds Peeta and Marko some time in the summer after the end of this story.

Thank you all so much for your continued readership, feedback, and support!

Love, LilD


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